Return
by Neoinean
Summary: Plothole filler, season two: Richie's life has been uprooted twice because of Mac's friendship with Darius. Now back in Seacouver, Richie tries to figure out where, if anywhere, he belongs. Post The Watchers.
1. Unsettled

Universe: A virtual "6th" season wherein "Modern Prometheus" was the finale of season 5 and ignores all events in the "real" season 5 finale and all of season 6, as well as the last movie.  This season takes place 1997-1998

Summary: A plot hole filler for the second season: Richie's life has been uprooted twice because of Mac's relationship with Darius.  Now back in Seacouver, he tries to reconcile his old life with his new one.  Post _The Watchers_.

Disclaimer: If I owned them why would I waste my time posting to fanfic sites?  I'd be off making lots and lots of money!  But since I'm not, I therefore don't, nor do I pretend to.

AN- This piece is sort of a bookend to my story _Flight_ (wherein Richie deals with going to Paris), but you don't necessarily have to have read that one first.  This was meant as a one-shot, but I decided that it was too long for that, so I'm breaking it up into chapters.  Hope you like!  

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Richie lay sprawled out in the center of his bed, his eyes not focused on the motorcycle magazine that he was attempting to read.  He had finally finished unpacking all the storage boxes and putting his room back in order.  It was perfect, he reckoned.  Nothing out of place from when MacLeod had packed everything away nine months ago.  The highlander had closed up the store—and the loft—in preparation for the move to Paris.  Well, they were back from Paris now, and everything had to get put back to the way it was.  

The reconstruction was made easy by MacLeod's meticulous sense of order—everything in its place.  The boxes were neatly packed and their contents catalogued, just like the priceless antiques downstairs.  One part of Richie felt touched by the effort.  The other part reassured him that it was simply MacLeod's way.  

Now, lying on his bed, surrounded by his possessions, nine months later, it was almost as though Paris had never happened.  He could almost close his eyes and pretend that he hadn't just returned from nine months abroad.  

Almost.

Richie tossed the magazine aside and got up.  He needed to get out for a bit.

"I'm going for a ride," he called to Tessa, who was in the middle of making dinner.

"But it's almost time to eat," she protested.

"I'm not hungry," he said, continuing on his way to the stairs.  Tessa bit her lip.  _How very unlike Richie._

"Ok," she said hesitantly as he had already whisked past her.  "Just be careful."

"Always am," he called up to her as he made his way down into the loft.  Duncan was in the store room, still trying to get the place ready to be opened for business.  Richie slipped out the front door and walked around the building to the back where his bike was parked.  Thankfully it had arrived from Paris in one piece.

Sometimes, long rides on his bike were just what Richie needed to get his thoughts in order.    

As Richie rode, his first thoughts were of how different Seacouver streets were from Paris streets.  He had never really been out of the city before, and then suddenly he found himself in Paris of all places!  Now… Driving in his hometown again, Richie could hardly believe that he used to think of Seacouver as a 'city'.  

It was also dirtier, Richie noticed.  Of course, that wasn't to say that Paris was _clean_, by any means.  It was just… Richie knew that Paris had to have had bad neighborhoods—every city did.  But to Richie they didn't seem as bad.  And it wasn't because the graffiti was in French or the condemned buildings were also historical landmarks awaiting renovation.  There was something _else_, too, but Richie couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was.

The weather was the same.  He remembered observing that fact after having been in Paris a month.  The raindrops were smaller, and the storms smelt differently somehow.  But the number of dreary, dismal, cold, wet, _miserable _days where you have _no choice_ but to stay inside?  Surprisingly, those were exactly the same.

As Richie rode on, only now chancing to notice the rain as it hit against his helmet visor, he forced down the realization that after Paris, those rainy days didn't seem nearly as bad.

Richie took meandering paths all across Seacouver, essentially driving in glorified yet ever-increasing circles.  On his way, he noticed the potholes, the abandoned buildings that somehow seemed to have increased in number while he was away, the stores and restaurants he had known that were now called something else.  The traffic lights weren't hanging where he was expecting them to be.  All the signs were in English.  There were no outdoor cafés, and coffee was the beverage of choice.

Richie hadn't had a cup since leaving the States.  He'd grown accustomed to one of Darius's teas, and he drank Evian water because bottles were a dime a dozen over there.  Mac and Tessa had even begun introducing him to French wine…

He was in the states now.  That convenience store on the corner there would ask for his ID, then turn him down.  It still amazed Richie how he could be so grown up in France, and still just a boy over here.

And as he continued to drive, he wasn't sure what had changed more: himself, or his hometown.

And as he passed the park, and saw the empty tables where old men play chess—a game that Darius taught him to pass the time and ease the tension while they awaited the outcome of Duncan's fight with Grayson, he couldn't help but wish that Mac could have avenged the immortal priest in Paris.  

Richie rounded the corner onto Pauling Avenue, absentmindedly making his way from the park into his old neighborhood without even thinking, because his thoughts were stuck lamenting how he wished to God that he was still in Paris, and that he never had to come back here, though it would be a while yet before his conscious mind would admit to having such thoughts.

It was only when he passed the relatively new-looking building amongst the more decrepit others lining the street that he realized exactly where he was.  He pulled over to the side of the road and just stared at the duplex that had so captivated him.

"I used to live there…" He mused.  _Two fifty four Pauling Avenue_…  "Or I did, until it blew up."  Memories of a year ago suddenly flooded his brain.  His foster father dying suddenly, his one-up on social services giving him his very own apartment before his eighteenth birthday.  Then the rent money, Romeo, the stabbing, MacLeod… Richie remembers it all so vividly.  And it all started because of this little piece of land.  His townhouse apartment wasn't standing anymore.  There were no traces of it.

For some reason, that thought made Richie want to both laugh and cry at the same time.

Instead he kicked his bike into gear again and drove away.

It was raining harder now, but Richie didn't care.  He needed to see his old neighborhood again.  He drove every street, not caring that it was rapidly getting colder and wetter outside, and not entirely sure _why_ he needed to see his old neighborhood again.  But still, he rode on.

The orphanage has a new coat of paint on it, he noticed.  But it looked the same.  The lights were on in a few of the rooms.  Richie saw the corner window on the third floor where he shared a bedroom with three other boys his age.  That window was dark.  Richie rode on.

He passed the pizza places where he used to hang out, Laundromats, video stores.  The old church that never had enough money to repair their masonry was now closed for renovations, so the sign said, but the outside looked the same as ever.  It also seemed that a few more street lamps had burnt their bulbs since he's been away.  

Seacouver was _dark_, Richie realized.  But then, weren't all places dark compared to the city of lights?

Richie rode on, taking in the sites and yet only passively registering them.  It all seemed to wash over his senses like the rain that was now pouring in buckets.  Yet on he rode, in direct defiance of this.

It wasn't until he was about to make a left onto Washburn Avenue that his mind snapped back into focus.  He swerved off the road and up onto the sidewalk when he saw the signs: _one way_; _do not enter_.

"Washburn's a one way now?" He spoke aloud.  Then he maneuvered his bike back towards the entrance and peered down the dark and narrow street.  Sure enough, it had been repaved, and parallel parking guides were painted off on the left hand side.  Richie revved his engine, preparing to drive down it anyway, to Hell with the changes!  But then he took notice of the rain, and of how cold he was, and with a resigned sigh decided against it.  Instead he drove back onto the street, and began a meandering path back towards the loft.

Richie rode on auto pilot for the duration of the return trip.  He was cold, wet, miserable, and tired, and just wanted to crawl under the covers and go to sleep.  Of course, what he really wanted to do, was crawl under the covers and feel the gentle lapping of minute waves beneath his bed.  It was dark now, and after dinner.  Tessa would be at the table reviewing her notes for the next work day.  Mac would have the kettle on…

He kept his eyes focused on the road, not bothering with the scenery anymore.  He had decided that there was nothing here that he wanted to see.

Richie made it back to the loft and parked his bike in the back.  Then he entered through the workshop, made his way through the store, and up the stairs into the loft.  He was soaking wet, his shoes leaving prints and his clothes and hair dripping everywhere.

"Where have you been?" Duncan asked when Richie appeared in the foyer.  The highlander was making tea.

"Riding," the teen answered tonelessly.  Duncan took stock of his disheveled appearance and decided not to press the matter… yet.

"You missed dinner," he said instead.  Richie just shrugged.  

"Save me any?" He asked, smiling slightly as the scent of rosehips and chamomile reached his nostrils.  MacLeod always brewed the tea in the kettle. 

"Of course," Duncan answered, smiling in return.  "It's in the fridge." 

"Thanks."  Richie shrugged out of his wet jacket and hung it on the coat rack.  Duncan frowned and tossed him a dish towel.  Richie caught it, but it took him a half-second longer then usual to figure out what it was for.  Finally he put it beneath his still-dripping coat to catch the water.

"You ok?" Duncan asked, concerned.  Richie looked up at him innocently.  "You seem distracted."  

"I'm fine," Richie answered with a smile that didn't quite make his eyes.  "Just tired."  Duncan nodded skeptically, but thought better of pressing the issue… yet.

"Why don't you go take a hot shower before you catch cold," he said instead, keeping his voice light.  Richie was soaking wet, ghostly pale, and shivering slightly.  Richie just nodded and headed for the bathroom.  A hot shower seems really inviting right now.

"Did Richie come back?"  Tessa asked, walking down the hallway from the master bedroom into the kitchen.  The sudden sound of running water in the bathroom was her answer, and Duncan just smiled at her.  "Did he tell you where he went?"

"Riding," Duncan answered plainly.  Tessa shot him a glare.

"Why would he go riding in this weather?" She asked.  "And why won't he tell us where he went?"  Duncan could tell from her tone of voice that she was more confused and concerned than suspicious.  The kettle whistled and so he removed it to an unused burner.  

"Maybe he just went for a ride," Duncan offered, grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet.  A glance in Tessa's direction conveyed the silent question, and Tessa's slight headshake told him that she didn't want any tea.  

"Richie wouldn't just 'go for a ride' when it's pouring buckets outside," Tessa returned.  "Especially if it meant missing dinner."  Duncan made his way over to the couch with his tea, stopping only to grab the newspaper from the kitchen table.  "Duncan?"

"Richie went for a ride, came back, and is now taking a shower," Duncan explained from his spot on the couch.  "And he seemed interested in the fact that we saved him some dinner.  And it's not like Richie's never decided to just get on his bike and go for a ride."

"Yes, but he only does that when something is bothering him," Tessa reminded him.  Duncan nodded.

"He uses the time on his bike to think.  It's how he works through his problems."  Tessa sat down next to him.  

"I know why he does it Duncan," she reassured him with slight reproach.  "I sketch, you practice your martial arts, and Richie goes for rides on his bike."  

"We all have our own ways of coping," Duncan offered.  Tessa sighed.

"Mac, he hasn't been himself lately."  Duncan didn't comment, so Tessa continued.  "He's practically locked himself in his room these past few days, his appetite's been off, and he's been…"  Tessa trailed off, trying to find the right words.

"Distant?" Duncan offered.  Tessa nodded.

"Duncan, he's been like this ever since—"

"Horton," Duncan interrupted.  "I know."

"I don't understand it," said Tessa.  "Horton is dead.  Those-those _watchers_, are gone.  And he's home now."  Duncan shrugged.

"He's been through a lot recently, Tess," Duncan reminded her.  "First Darius, then, coming back here, and Horton and the Watchers…"

"He's been through a lot before," Tessa returned softly.  Duncan flinched inwardly, but nodded.  "Duncan, what should we do?"  The highlander simply shrugged again.  In truth, he was just as worried about Richie as Tessa was.  He too had watched Richie practically withdraw into himself these past few days.  Tessa was right: he wasn't eating like he should be, and he had taken to hibernating in his room to the point where he was sure that the teen was deliberately trying to avoid them.  

However, there was the obvious fact that Richie was still just a teenager.  By nature he's bound to be moody at times, and he and Tessa had seen it before.  Usually he would just snap himself out of it, or forget about what was bothering him, or find some sort of solution to it, and everything would go back to normal and life would continue.  And Richie _has_ been through a lot lately, the least of which being that he was uprooted _again_ on very short notice, this time to allow the highlander a chance to avenge Darius rather than save him.

Duncan considered these things and more while he sipped his tea, and Tessa waited patiently for some sort of answer.  Truthfully, he had expected Richie to have another one of his 'moods' as soon as the life-threatening danger had passed.  And now Richie finally decided to get on his bike, which has proven to help him in the past.  That really should be an encouraging sign.

_So why wasn't he feeling encouraged?_

"I think we should just give him time," Duncan concluded at last.  At Tessa's disbelieving stare he elaborated: "Richie likes working through his problems on his own.  We've seen this from him before, Tessa.  He knows that he can come to us if he needs to, but otherwise he wants us to give him his space."

"But is what he wants necessarily what's best for him?" Tessa asked.  Duncan shrugged.

"We've seen him do this before, Tess," Duncan reiterated.  "After Gary died, after Nikki and Melinda left, after Felecia, Reinhardt, Pitone… and other things we didn't know about.  After a couple of days he came through it just fine, and was back to his old self again."  Tessa bit her lip, both agreeing and disagreeing with her lover.

"And the other times?" She asked.  Duncan shut his eyes and turned away.  Not every one of Richie's 'moods' could be recovered from without help.  They centered around his fear of abandonment, and his worries of doing something to hurt, or disappoint, or otherwise incur the ire of his employers… of his family.  Such insecurities broke Duncan's heart to hear, but somehow, they had worked through it.  Somehow, either he or Tessa would stumble upon the correct phrase, or action, or… something, that would appear to miraculously make things better.  In reality Duncan knew it wasn't miraculous recovery, but gradually, he and Tessa were working to heal eighteen years worth of wounds and fade eighteen years worth of scars.  

Duncan had hoped that, after Grayson, Richie wouldn't need such reassurances from them.  They were a family now, and had been for nine wonderful months.  Surely Richie was just having one of his 'moods'.  Surely he wasn't backsliding into old fears and old assumptions and ways of thinking?

"The other times we helped him through it," said Duncan.  "But I don't think this is like those other times."  He sounded much more assured to his own ears than he truly felt inside, but the last thing he wanted to do was jump to conclusions.  Doing so would only push the lad further away.

Just then Richie emerged from the bathroom, wearing a pair of sweats.  True to his word, he looked positively exhausted.  But at least he was warm and (mostly) dry now.  Duncan shot Tessa a warning glance.

"How was your ride?" Tessa asked.  She felt Duncan tense next to her.

"Fine," Richie answered dismissively.  He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured himself a glass of water.

"Do you want something to eat?" She asked, rising from the couch and entering the kitchen.  

"No thanks, Tess," Richie answered, sounding as tired as he looked.  "I think I'm just gonna go crash."

"Are you feeling alright?" She asked, noticing Richie toss a few pills into the back of his throat before swallowing them with the water.

"Fine," Richie answered again.  "Just a bit of a headache."  At this remark Duncan stood and made his way into the kitchen.  Thankfully Richie hadn't seen him down the rest of his tea in one gulp so as to give him the excuse of bringing his mug to the sink.

"You want some tea?" He offered.  The teen shook his head.

"Nah, just the Tylenol and some sleep."  Richie finished his glass of water and rinsed it out.  Then he put it back in the cabinet.  Duncan and Tessa stood silently watching him.  "Good night."

"Good night, Richie," Duncan returned.  Then the couple watched as he made his way back down the hallway and into his bedroom.  When he shut the door, Tessa turned to Duncan and asked,

"Are you worried now?"             


	2. Awkward

AN- Thanks to my wonderful reviewers, and double thanks to SouthernChickie for the incidental beta'ing.  

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Richie was supposed to help Duncan with getting the store ready the next morning, the arrangement being for nine o'clock.  However, Richie really wasn't in the mood to get up early and spend hours around dusty old antiques (including MacLeod).  Even though his alarm was set for eight, he kept hitting the 'snooze' button until eight forty-five.  That's when Duncan knocked on his door… knocked, opened, and stuck his head in.

"You planning on getting up today?"  He asked.  Richie groaned and rolled over.

"What time is it?" He asked after a moment.

"Quarter of nine."  Richie sighed and groaned again.

"Give me a few," he answered.  Satisfied, Duncan shut the door again.  

Richie didn't want to get out of bed.  He was freezing, for one thing, and he woke up with the same headache that he'd gone to bed with.  But he gave the man his word, so reluctantly he crawled out from under the covers.  After dressing in a warm pair of sweats (and taking his sweet time about it), he stumbled from his room and made his way to the kitchen.

"Good morning," Tessa greeted warmly.  She was on her way to refill her coffee mug.

"Morning," Richie responded blearily as he grabbed a mug of his own from the cabinet.

"Do you feel any better than you did last night?" The Frenchwoman asked.  Richie ran his hand over his face, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

"Yeah," he lied.  "I'm just tired."  Tessa frowned.

"Didn't you sleep well?"  

"Fine," he lied again as he added plenty of cream and sugar to his coffee.  His headache had kept him up most of the night.  That and the chills.  "Just need the pick-me-up."  He emphasized this point by taking as long a sip as the hot coffee would allow.

"I thought you had given up coffee?"  Tessa asked in curious amusement.

"Yeah, well, I'd also given up early mornings," he answered with a wry smile.  Tessa laughed.  

"Can I get you some breakfast?" She asked, remembering that he hadn't eaten any dinner the night before.

"No thanks, Tess," said Richie.  "Mac's already downstairs waiting for me."

"You need to eat something, Richie," Tessa protested.  "You didn't eat dinner last night."  Richie frowned.  He really wasn't all that hungry, despite how long it's been since his last meal.  However, he was even less in the mood to argue the point.

"Ok," he acquiesced.  "How 'bout some toast?"  Tessa smiled.

"Sure.  Why don't you go sit and drink your coffee while I make some."  Richie laughed.

"You just have to put two slices of bread in the toaster.  That's not exactly hard or time consuming."  

"You go sit down with your coffee," Tessa directed.  "I'll bring over your _four_ pieces of toast when they're ready."  Richie smirked and nodded tiredly before making his way to the kitchen table.  He nearly fell asleep over his coffee before Tessa brought his toast over, strawberry jam lightly spread over the pieces, just the way he likes it.

"Thanks, Tess," he said, trying for a charming smile but not entirely succeeding.

"You're welcome."  Tessa then proceeded to sit across from him.  The six-slice toaster was put to good use as since she had decided to make two of her own.  Of course, it only served to give her an excuse to sit and make sure Richie ate all of his own.  It was the best way to see whether or not he was sick, since naturally he wouldn't tell them himself.  

Richie was quite aware of this as he watched Tessa apply butter and cinnamon to her toast in a very 'methodical' way, taking her time, before savoring the slices unnecessarily.  Not wanting to be confined to bed-rest on the assumption that he was ill, Richie ate each and every piece, crusts and all.  He wasn't at all hungry, and being forced to eat like that was making him feel slightly sick, but he washed it all down with coffee and kept the fake smile plastered to his face until his breakfast was over with.

Tessa was well aware of this, but didn't care, because it meant that he was eating.  

"Thanks for the toast," said Richie, falling just short of sincere, as he stood up from the table.  

"You're welcome," Tessa responded, falling just short of casual.  Richie made his way over to the coffee pot and poured himself a refill.

"Mac'll be expecting me downstairs," he said, and he made his way over to the foyer and down the stairs from the loft.  Tessa just watched him go, her concern for the teen only mounting.

"Morning, Richie," Duncan greeted when Richie appeared in the store.  The highlander was sitting in the middle of a maze of china and crystal, trying to simultaneously clean and catalogue the items.  

"Morning," Richie answered.  He still sounded tired, but not as much so thanks to the coffee.

"What'll it be?" The highlander asked.  "Dusting, or cataloguing."

"Whichever you don't want," Richie answered neutrally.  Duncan responded by tossing him the dust rag.

"Grab a seat," he said.  Richie sat down on the floor on the outskirts of Duncan's surrounding city of breakables.  "Everything behind me has already been done," he explained.  "You dust, then pass it to me, and I'll catalogue it."  Richie nodded.

"Gotcha."  The two working in amicable silence for a while, Richie dusting, Duncan cataloguing.  Slowly but surely, there were more items behind the highlander than in front of him.  He noticed that Richie was more lethargic than usual, but then he wasn't used to getting up early, either.  Since there was no store to open in Paris, the teen had been afforded the luxury of keeping whatever hours he wanted—provided he wasn't disturbing anyone.  

All in all, the system worked rather well.  If he wanted to stay up later than Mac and Tessa, he would simply head above deck and read, or listen to music.  Tessa would leave early for work in the mornings to beat the traffic, and Duncan would usually go for a run.  Richie didn't usually stir until after the highlander had returned, and that was sometime late morning.  

Of course, that meant that having to get up at eight this morning (or even quarter of nine), was cruel and unusual punishment for the teen, so Richie's subdued nature was totally understandable.

Had this been later on in the day, Duncan would have been a bit more worried.  And if Richie wasn't dusting, the cough that he developed as they worked would have worried him, too. 

"Do you have any plans this evening?" Duncan asked, finally breaking their silence.  Richie started at the sudden voice, nearly dropping the vase he was dusting.

"Huh?"  Duncan fought the urge to laugh.  The teen was obviously lost in thought.

"I asked if you had any plans for tonight."

"You mean for when I'm done with this?" Richie asked with a sarcastic grin.  He didn't think that he was going to be paroled any time soon.  

"Well Tessa wanted me to go grocery shopping so we can have something decent for dinner tonight," said Duncan.  "So I won't be keeping you here too late."  Richie nodded, considering this new information.  Then he shrugged.

"I had nothing special planned," he said non-committed, afraid that the highlander was about to ask for company.  "Why?"

"I was just wondering if you were going to see your friends tonight," said Duncan.  "You've been home nearly two weeks and I haven't heard you mention anything about it."  Richie flinched inwardly at Duncan's mention of being home.  _Paris_ was home.  This was just where he grew up.

"Well we were kinda busy the first week," Richie defended with a wry grin.  Duncan laughed, somehow managing to keep the sadness from it.

"True," he admitted.  "But like I said, it's been more than a week."  Richie sighed.  

"I've thought about it," he admitted.  "But we were gone for nine months.  That's a long time for my friends and me.  Lots can change."

"Like what?"  Richie inwardly flinched again, contemplating the possibilities. 

"Well, for one thing, I know that they move a lot," he answered eventually, deciding that that was the safest answer he could give.  Duncan nodded; it was true that lower income families tended to change addresses more frequently.  "I don't want to call their number and have some stranger answer the phone."  _Or have their relative tell me that they're in prison, or worse…_

"Only one way to find out," said Duncan, matter-of-factly.  

"Right…" Richie agreed, but he was still lost in his own morbid thoughts.  The conversation lapsed into silence from there.

Duncan and Richie worked side by side doing much of the same thing until three o'clock that afternoon, when the highlander decided that he couldn't postpone grocery shopping any longer.  Richie was relieved that the manual labor part of his day was over.  He was tired and achy and just wanted his sleep.  Also, he was more than relieved to escape MacLeod.  It wasn't because of any animosity or other ulterior motive; Richie just had a severe craving for solitude, and it seemed that everything Mac and Tessa did was too encroaching or too smothering.  He felt stifled in their presence for some reason, though at this point he couldn't quite place why.  At three o'clock when Duncan had called it quits for the day, and Richie felt like jumping for joy... figuratively speaking since he doubted that he had the energy for it.  

Duncan, being the less covered in dust from his position as cataloguer, decided that he could leave straight away for the store and shower when he got back.  That left Richie alone in the loft with Tessa.  All he wanted was a hot shower to ease his aches and pains, a few Tylenol, and a nice long nap.  Of course, that meant that he needed to stealthily avoid the Frenchwoman whom he was certain was hell-bent on intruding upon his well-laid plans.

"How are you feeling, Richie?"  The teen silently cursed.  He had made it almost to the bathroom before being discovered.  Unfortunately, that's when Tessa emerged from the master bedroom.

"Dusty," he answered plainly.  "I'm gonna grab shower."  Tessa smiled; Richie's flippant answer meant that he was feeling more like himself again.

"Dinner won't be for another few hours," she said.  "You should probably eat something.  You missed lunch."  Richie fought the urge to groan.

"Shower first," he said, hoping that if she agreed, she would have forgotten all about it by the time he was through.  Her thoughtful expression dashed that hope.

"Why don't you tell me what you want so that I can have it ready for you when you come out?"  Richie took a slow, deep breath to keep himself from snapping at her that he just wanted to be left alone.  _She's just looking out for me…_

"Just heat up the leftovers that I didn't eat last night," he said finally.  Tessa frowned.

"I'm sorry Richie.  I had that for lunch."  This time Richie didn't try and cover the sigh.

"Grab some cold cuts and make me a sandwich then," he said, impatience seeping into his voice.

"Roast beef or turkey?"  

"Whichever," Richie said, even more impatiently.  "Just pick one, or use both, I don't care."

"Ok," Tessa agreed, failing at keeping the hurt out of her voice just as Richie failed at the exasperation.  Richie cursed himself and forced his warmest smile to his face.

"I'm tired, and I just want to get cleaned up," he said, indicating his formerly black but now dusty brown-gray sweats.  It really was a lame excuse for his behavior, but he wasn't about to say anything further, not without risking saying something he'd surely regret.  Tessa smiled back, however weakly.  She couldn't keep the concern from showing through, either.

Richie stayed in the shower a lot longer than usual, soaking every square inch of ache in streams of hot water, especially his head.  He blamed the increased headache on the dust wreaking havoc with his sinuses.  When he finally emerged, he was wearing sweats and a tee shirt, but he still felt oddly chilled.  He figured that the best thing for him would be to choke down the sandwich Tessa had waiting for him (since his appetite still hadn't returned) and crawl under the covers and stay in bed until they nagged him to come out for dinner.  If he was lucky, he'd be asleep by then, and they'd leave him be.

"Feel better?"  Tessa asked him when he entered the kitchen.  Richie nodded.

"Everyone feels better after a hot shower."  Truthfully, he only felt better because he felt _cleaner_, but at least he didn't lie…

"Your sandwich is on the counter," said Tessa.  She had made it when she heard the water turn off, so it wasn't sitting for long.

"Thanks," he said, trying to sound sincere and not sarcastic.  It came out as neutral.  Richie grabbed the plate and headed for the table, noticing that she had chosen turkey.

"Can I get you something to drink?"  Tessa asked.  Richie intellectually knew that she was just being polite, but he still found himself biting his tongue against a rude rebuttal.

"Water's fine," he said instead, hoping that it would take care of the irritation in the back of his throat from breathing dust for hours.  Tessa grabbed a glass and filled it with tap water, then placed it on the table in front of him.  Richie took a generous gulp before redirecting his attention to the sandwich.

Tessa was seated across from him again, presumably reading the newspaper but actually standing guard and making sure that he ate all of his sandwich.  He silently cursed her as he took bite after agonizing bite, washing it down with plenty of water.

"Thanks Tess," he said, once again falling just short of sincere, as he stood and took his plate to the sink.

"You're welcome," Tessa answered, once again falling just short of casual.  Richie rinsed his plate and replaced it in the cabinet.  Then he grabbed his glass and refilled it.  

"Are you sure you're all right?"  Tessa asked him as he took a swig of water.  She already knew what his answer would be, but she decided that she didn't like how pale he looked, nor how sluggishly he was moving.

"Positive," he answered, plastering a fake smile on his face that at that moment he didn't care if Tessa saw through.  True to form, she fixed him with a soft yet disbelieving stare.  "Really Tessa," he reassured.  "I'm just tired.  Six hours of manual labor will do that to you."

"I suppose it will."  Tessa agreed that he was tired—and had the right to be.  But that didn't mean that she believed that fatigue was all that was wrong.

"I'm gonna go take a nap," said Richie after a moment's pause.  "Call me when dinner's ready," he added for her benefit.  Secretly he wished that they would just let him sleep.

"Ça va," Tessa agreed, sighing herself.  She had expected as much.  

Richie took his glass of water with him, stopping off in the bathroom to get some Tylenol from the medicine cabinet.  He went for two Extra Strength this time.  

After taking the pills, Richie made his way into his bedroom, his feet dragging more and more with every step.  When he finally made it to his bedside, he placed the half empty glass of water on his nightstand before allowing himself to flop forward.  Richie hit his bed lengthwise with a thud and a slight reverberating bounce.  He stayed in that position for a few moments, just grateful to be off his feet, and finally granted some privacy, before shifting his body position around so that he way lying correctly.  From there, he spent the last ounces of his energy maneuvering himself under the covers at last.

As he settled in and got comfortable, Richie's thoughts drifted back to that conversation he had with MacLeod.  He _was_ curious to find out how his friends were doing… curious and slightly worried.  A lot can happen in nine months.  After brief consideration he decided that the best way to find out would be to head over to the homeless shelter where Angie worked when he got up tomorrow.  She could fill him in on all that he's missed since he went away.  And if she wasn't there anymore, then there would be someone who could at least point him in the right direction.

Richie burrowed into the covers until only the top of his strawberry blond curls were sticking out.  He was still cold, but that would soon change, he thought with a grin.     

How right he was.


	3. Battles

AN- Thanks to my reviewers!  However, some places tell me that I have 4 reviews, another says I have 6.  Only three of the 4 viewable were emailed to me.  Therefore, if you've submitted a review, and it isn't shown, then I didn't get it, and FF.net is having indigestion.  Nevertheless, I humbly request your reviews…

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Unfortunately, Richie wasn't allowed to sleep through dinner.  He was awoken from his nap only two brief hours later by Tessa knocking on his door.  

"Richie, dinner," she called to him without opening the door.  There was no reply, so she knocked again, this time louder.  "Richie?"  This time she was greeted with a moan.  "Richie, dinner's ready."

Richie heard the knocking, but wished it all away as part of a bad dream.  When he heard Tessa's voice, he silently prayed that she would eventually give up and leave him in peace.  Then she knocked and called again, louder.  No such luck.  He groaned as he dragged himself the rest of the way into wakefulness.  Then came the voice again.  With a heavy sigh, Richie pulled himself up.  Obviously he would get no peace until after dinner.

"In a sec," he called back sleepily.  Fortunately his fatigue masked the other emotions he was feeling.  Satisfied, Tessa went back into the dining room.  Duncan had just carried the rest of the plates and serving dished over to the table.

"He said he'll be out in a second," Tessa informed her lover.  Duncan nodded in acceptance.

"Was he sleeping?"  He asked.  

"I don't know," Tessa answered.  "Probably."  Duncan frowned.

"We probably should have let him sleep.  If he's taking a nap, he must need the extra rest."

"Yes," Tessa agreed, "but he needs to eat a decent meal even more."

"Decent?" Duncan asked, confused.

"All he's had to eat today were a few slices of toast this morning and a turkey sandwich when he was done working."  Duncan frowned again.

"That's not like him," he observed.  "But then, neither is taking naps."  Tessa nodded.

"You don't think he's getting sick?"  Duncan wasn't given a chance to answer.  Just then Richie plodded into the dining room with heavy footfalls.  Whether he was sick or not, Duncan couldn't tell just by looking at him, but the teen did look exhausted.

"What's for dinner," he asked blearily as he plopped himself down into a chair.

"Pasta," Duncan answered as he took the lid off the largest pot, revealing bowtie noodles.  Richie forced a smile to his face.  Normally, he loved it when MacLeod cooked Italian.  Tonight he just wasn't all that hungry.  He poured himself a glass of lemonade from the pitcher on the table, hoping that it wasn't too sweet, while he waited his turn to serve himself some pasta.

When it was his turn, he served himself a noticeably smaller portion than his norm.  He skimped on his sauce serving, too, which Duncan knew to be his favorite part.  Biting his tongue against comment just yet, Duncan served himself and sat down to what would hopefully be a nice, quiet dinner with his family.  

The conversation centered mostly around small talk—when the store would be ready to open, how Tessa was doing reestablishing herself as a local artist, and when they would arrange to see old friends again now that they were back in town.  Richie was silent during this, which was also very uncharacteristic of him.  Both Duncan and Tessa watched as he focused on eating his pasta, methodically, piece by piece, making sure that each one had the correct amount of sauce on it, and taking a quick sip of lemonade after every bite to wash it all down.  _How very, very unlike Richie…_

Richie finished his meager portion and got up to put his empty plate in the dishwasher.

"Something wrong with the pasta?"  Duncan asked, finally no longer able to remain silent.  Richie turned to him, confused.  "You didn't eat very much," Duncan explained.  "I thought my pasta was one of your favorites."  Richie smiled weakly, blushing slightly.

"It was fantastic as always," said Richie.  "I'm just not that hungry."

"Are you feeling alright?"  Duncan asked, keeping his tone light as though only making fun, since normally Richie is _always_ hungry.  However, he was very serious in asking.  Richie smiled again.

"I'm fine," he lied easily.  "I just had a late lunch."  He looked quickly to Tessa as if to prove his point.  However, he didn't quite get the support that he was expecting.

"Richie, all you've had to eat today was four slices of toast this morning and that sandwich this afternoon," she began.  "How can you not be hungry now?"  Richie sighed, biting the inside of his lip.  He didn't want to snap at her, which he very nearly did.

"That sandwich was very filling," he said instead, but his tone was mocking.      

"Are you sure you're alright?" Tessa asked, ignoring his tone.

"I'm fine," he reiterated with much impatience.  

"How can you be fine when your appetite's non-existent?"  Tessa returned.  

"Because I said so!" Richie exploded suddenly.  There was a moment of tense silence before Duncan finally rejoined the conversation.

"Richie…"  Or attempted to.  

"Look," the teen said thickly.  "I'm fine.  Tess, you've watched me eat three meals a day.  Just because I'm not stuffing my face doesn't mean that there's something wrong with me."  He said this slowly and pointedly, emphasizing every word.

"We're only asking because we care," Tessa said softly, hurt.  Richie released another impatient, elongated sigh, but he didn't bother to clarify that it was himself that he was impatient with.  _How are they supposed to believe nothing's wrong if _this_ is the way you act?_

"I'm grateful," he said shortly, sounding anything but.  "But if you care so much then why not try respecting my judgment?"

"That would be easier if you stopped lying to us," Duncan interjected.  Richie paled considerably.

"I don't have to stay here and take this," he said, raising his hands and backing up slightly.

"Richie," Duncan tried again.  The teen would have none of it, however.  He turned on his heals and headed for the door.  

"Where are you going?" Tessa called after him.

"Riding!" Richie shouted back as he left the loft and descended the stairs.  Tessa moved to follow him but Duncan grabbed her arm stopping her.

"We can't let him leave like that!" She protested.

"We can't stop him, either," Duncan pointed out.  Tessa sighed, collapsing herself into a nearby chair and allowing her head to fall into her hands.

"What are we going to do?" She asked without looking up.  Duncan sighed tiredly.

"We can't help him if he won't talk to us," he said.  Tessa looked up at him.

"So _now_ you think we should help him?"  It was a low blow, and she regretted it instantly.

"First he needs to admit that there's something wrong," said Duncan, ignoring the hurt from Tessa's statement.

"Well he's not about to do that now," said Tessa ruefully, staring off in the direction that he left in.

"I'll talk to him when he gets back," said Duncan determinedly.  Tessa nodded.

"Do you think he'll be back tonight?" She asked, he voice quiet and fearful.  Duncan didn't have an answer for her. 

***

Richie decided that now would be as good a time as any to head over to the shelter.  It was open twenty-four hours a day to accommodate Seacouver's burgeoning homeless population.  Even if Angie wasn't working right now, someone would be there to tell him when would be the best time to find her.

Of course, it did occur to him, when it began to rain again on the drive over, that it would have been much easier to simply try and call her.  But Richie sided against that option… he didn't know if he could handle calling her number and getting a stranger on the line.  Not to mention the awkwardness of having her say 'hi' and then lots and lots of dead air.  No, in person is the best way.

And so Richie turned down Madison and headed for the shelter.

Only when he got there, the shelter was now a shoe store.

"What the hell…"  Richie was at a loss as to what to do now.  He was positively certain that he had remembered where the shelter was.  He had remembered every other location vividly.  Yet, here he was, and no shelter.  Richie cursed again while trying to decide what to do.

As if to blatantly mock his current string of luck, the solution presented itself only a few moments later.  Richie spied a traffic cop making his rounds and ticketing all those parked illegally.  He was carrying a big umbrella and an even larger scowl, but nothing ventured, nothing gained…

"Excuse me, sir?"  The cop ignored him as he proceeded to write out another ticket.  "Excuse me?" Richie repeated, a little louder.  This time the cop glanced up at him, but went back to writing out his ticket.  "Excuse me!"  Richie said again, practically shouting, and his voice was brimming with impatient exasperation.

"You want something, kid?" The cop asked as he tore the ticket off his pad and stuck it under a windshield wiper.

"Didn't there used to be a homeless shelter here?"  Richie asked, his voice returning to feigned politeness and losing some of its demanding edge.  The cop looked up as if to take stock of where he was.

"Yeah," he answered.  "Closed about six months ago."

"Closed?" Richie asked in disbelief.

"Yeah," said the cop, irritated at having to repeat himself.  "Closed."

"Why?"

"Not enough money, not enough volunteers, and then the city cut back funding and under it went."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"You're too well dressed to be homeless, kid," the cop said skeptically.  

"I used to volunteer there," Richie answered tightly.  He wasn't in the mood to trade words with a street cop.

"Yeah you and half the city," said the cop.  "Perhaps if you kept with it, they wouldn't have had to close up shop."

"I was out of town for nine months," said Richie, enunciating every word and trying to remain calm.  The cop looked Richie up and down, and his scowl only increased.

"Well you most likely weren't in school," he said as though he were certain he was right.  "Where were you, prison?"  Richie's temper flared, but even he knew better than to risk an aggravated assault charge on a police officer… even if said office was being a… not so nice person.

"Do all Seacouver policemen make such wild assumptions?" He asked, affecting his favorite tone for dealing with authority figures.  "If so then no wonder the crime rate's on the rise."  Just as the cop was bristling, making ready to respond, Richie switched over to French.  "_If you must know_," he said with perfect accent and inflection, "_I was in __Paris__ for nine months, you fat-assed, greasy pig!_"  Richie's venomous tone carried his meaning home, even if the cop didn't understand a word he had said.

"Why you little—"  Richie cut him off, though.

"What are you going to do, arrest me?  Yeah I'm sure your captain will love that one.  I wonder what type of penalty is assessed for speaking French to a police officer…"  The cop, though by now a rather amusing shade of purple, remained silent.  Richie tossed off a few more French expletives before climbing back on his bike and speeding away.

Richie pulled over once he was around the corner and several blocks away from the officer with the chip on his shoulder.  For some reason he felt too warm in his biker's jacket, so he removed it.  That left him in just his tee shirt, but he didn't mind.  He continued to ride.

He also didn't mind when it started raining.  The cold raindrops and evaporative cooling felt good against his too-hot skin.  Then somewhere in the middle of cooling himself off, Richie decided that the only thing for him to do now was to drive over to the apartment Angie shared with her mom.  The shelter was on the fringes of his old neighborhood.  Angie lived on the other side of it.  If he wanted to see her, the fastest way would be to drive straight through it.  

Though, for some reason, Richie desperately didn't want to see his old neighborhood ever again.  He wanted to drive through the Latin Quarter, or Rue de la Tournelle where the barge was docked.  He wanted that stop sign to say 'arrêt' and for that policeman to understand every word he said.  

But for right now, he desperately wanted to see Angie, and that meant driving through his old neighborhood again.

Richie made it most of the way there when he realized that he didn't feel well.  His arms were freezing from the contact with the rain, and his tee shirt was soaked.  Yet the rest of him felt unbearably hot, and he was starting to get dizzy.  Knowing that something wasn't right, Richie pulled into the parking lot of a Burger King, aiming to simply get out of the rain for a few minutes, and to catch his breath, which for some reason seemed to trying to run away with him.

Finding enough change in his jacket pocket for a soda was a welcomed surprise.  He made his way up to the counter and ordered a small Pepsi, longing to have ordered it in French and depressed and miserable that he could not… amongst other things.  After being given his drink, and paying for it in quarters, nickels, and dimes, Richie made his way to a booth and sat down heavily, hearing is soaked sweat pants make a 'squish' sound as he did so.

The soda made him feel slightly better.  At least his mouth was no longer arid, and the world seemed to hold focus a bit better.  His arms were practically numb from cold, and the heat everywhere else was becoming unbearable.  When he heard himself wheezing he muttered a curse at having contracted a chest cold.  _You really should be home in bed_, he chided himself as he removed the lid from his now-empty-of-soda plastic cup and grabbed an ice cube to suck on.  

But the loft just didn't feel like home, and he was having trouble sleeping without the gentle rocking of tidal river waves beneath his bed…

Richie popped another ice cube as he tried to summon up the motivation to leave the fast food restaurant, either to go back to the loft or continue on to Angie's.  When he finally did force himself to his feet, he decided that Angie's was closer…

When Richie made his way back outside, he found a pack of boys eying his bike.  

"Something I can do for you guys?" He asked as casually as he could as he made his way over to them.

"This your ride?" One of the boys asked.  Richie nodded.  "It looks sweet."

"Nah," Richie contradicted, waving it off.  "Thing's a piece of junk."

"Then you wouldn't mind us relieving you of it," said another boy, stepping forward and standing tall.  He practically towered over Richie, who let out another impatient, exasperated sigh.  _Was everyone against him tonight?_

Richie's response was kneeing the unfortunate boy in his most vulnerable spot.  The poor thug never saw it coming, and crumbled to the ground in a heap, moaning and clutching himself.  His buddies looked on, stunned.

"Actually, I do mind," said Richie icily, fishing his keys out of his pocket.  Then the other boys woke up from their collective trance.

"Why you son of a—" Suddenly Richie felt his head snapping backwards.  One of the thugs landed a punch just off from his left eye, and the force of it nearly knocked him off his feet.  However, he was quick to recover.  He threw his fist forward and connected with another boy's chin.  That one staggered backwards and tripped over his fallen comrade.  

In his attack, he didn't have time to see nor avoid the hard fist that connected with the area of his left kidney.  Richie yelped in pain and fell to his knees.  From his kneeling position, he instinctively reached for the switchblade he used to keep in his back pocket.  

It wasn't there.  It hadn't been there for nearly a year.  

Richie didn't have time to even curse before a steel-toed boot connected with his shoulder and sent him spiraling backwards towards the ground.  He came to rest on his stomach in time to turn his head up and see his four attackers coming to loom over him.  

He wished MacLeod were here.  He could easily tackle this gang… Richie has seen him do similar things in the past.  He wished he had the Katana at least, or even his dinky switchblade.  And he wished above all else that he was back in Paris, drinking tea with Darius and living these events in the form of painful moments in chessboard confessions only, as opposed to staring at them wide-eyed in the middle of a rain-soaked street in Seacouver, the immortal priest nearly a month dead and gone.

Richie wished for all of those things, but he didn't have any of them.  And that realization made him angry.  Very angry.  Richie threw himself to his feet, cursing freely in French as he threw himself into his attackers.  He threw numerous punches—both fists—and watched the thugs fall back and scatter, taken by surprise by Richie's sudden fury.  

Richie successfully broke their line and got passed them.  He practically jumped onto his bike, grabbed the keys from where he had dropped them, kicked it into gear, and sped away.  The boys vainly gave chase, but couldn't catch him.  He felt a last-ditch punch scrape his back as he exited the parking lot.

Richie just rode in circles, not really paying attention to where he was headed, or even to how late it was getting, or to how low his gas meter was running, or even to the rain that continued to fall.  His side hurt, his head hurt, even his hands hurt.  The rest of him was either sweating or uncomfortably numb.  And he was exhausted.  When he finally took stock of where he was headed, he found himself back on Pauling Avenue, nearly upon the duplex that stood in place of his old apartment…

Richie didn't have it in him to curse again as he pulled an illegal U-turn and made his way back to the loft.  Instead he mentally cursed the boys who attacked him, the cop for his gross assumptions, the Burger King for not offering crepes as a side dish, and the city of Seacouver for not being Paris.  

He hated that he automatically drove towards his old apartment… to a building that wasn't even standing with people there now who wouldn't even know he existed.  He hated that he hadn't carried his switchblade for nearly a year and yet being back here made him automatically think it was there again.  

He hated that Darius was dead and he hated even more that avenging him meant returning to the States.  

He hated how here he was just a punk kid who mouthed off to cops, got into gang fights, and reached for the knife he knew how to use.   

He hated being back where he was just Richie Ryan, petty criminal, ward of the state, con artist, and all around loser.  He hated seeing the houses where he was fostered, seeing the orphanage where he spent too much time, passing people on the street he used to know who didn't recognize him any more.

This is where he stole, where he scraped to get by, where he fought for his life before he was old enough for it to be considered his own.  This is where he was Richie Ryan, no ties, no family, nothing special, nobody's favorite, easily forgotten.  This is where he started, and where he promised himself he wouldn't wind up.  He was going to make something of himself.  He was going to be somebody—become more than just what Seacouver promised his life to be.

And yet this is where he found himself now, picking fights with cops and street gangs, striking out on his own, and feeling sorry for himself and venting his frustrations on the streets he hated so much.

As the gas ran out on his motorcycle, nearly eighteen blocks from the loft, Richie dumped it into neutral and swung his legs around, preparing to push it the rest of the way.  He sang some French pop song as he made his way along, leaning on the bike for support as he went and using his own voice to drown out the sound of raindrops beating on his helmet, and hating most of all the realization that he was Richie Ryan, doomed to be trapped forever in Seacouver with only fond memories of Paris, and of a happy family there, and the priest who taught him to play chess and listened to his problems without offering advice nor judgment… fond memories that would fade with time the same way he couldn't remember Emily's face, or recall Angie's phone number.

The pop song was replaced by quiet sobbing as he came within sight of the loft.  Only the light in the living room was lit.  Even the cold concrete of the building was uninviting to him as he pushed the bike around back and tried to quiet his shameful tears.  How he missed being welcomed home by the smell of brackish salt and the sound of lapping water…


	4. Hurts

AN-  Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers!  Once again, FF.net is claiming that I have 2 more reviews than what's actually showing up.  Hrm… Do you think that I should email the mods or something?

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Richie parked his bike behind the loft in its usual spot.  He was tired and achy from the long walk and pushing his bike, and he was tired and achy from what he deemed 'the cold from hell' that made his head spin and his chest hurt when he breathed.

But that didn't matter now.  He was back at the loft—where Tessa would baby him, feed him chicken soup, and make sure he had enough blankets, and where Mac would bathe his forehead in cool cloths and tell him funny and exciting stories from his four hundred year history.  The loft: a place he was always welcomed, especially when he was hurt; the place where Mac and Tessa made sure that he was safe—from immortals, from his past, from his memories and from his nightmares.  

The loft: a refuge, but not a home.  Not for Richie.  Not since he'd tasted Paris, and what home and family could really be.

But when you're sick, and tired, and achy, and feverish, the refuge will do just fine.

Richie had made it halfway up the stairs into the loft when he remembered his fight with Mac and Tessa.  He sighed heavily, tiredly, and seriously debated heading back out the door.  But then he remembered that his bike was out of gas, so he had no choice but to remain.  It was only after he cursed his bad luck rather vehemently that he remembered—again—that he could always go to the loft if he needed help.  Mac and Tessa have never turned him away.  Especially even when he was sick or injured.  Even if they weren't on good terms…

Another sigh followed the realization, and tears pricked in his eyes again but he deftly wiped them away.  He couldn't deny the shame he felt for his behavior, nor the guilt.  Mac and Tessa didn't deserve his harsh words.  They were only trying to look out for him, because they care.  They're the only ones who have ever cared.  Richie had no clue as to why his thoughts kept running away from him, and why his couldn't restrain his oft too-smart mouth, but it was starting to (or rather, _continuing_ to) get on his nerves.  It was as though he was regressing somehow, unlearning what he had learned ever since coming to live with Mac and Tessa.  He tried to blame it on the fever, but that was a lame excuse.  And he tried to blame it on being back in Seacouver, but really, what did that have anything to do with it?  

_This is the loft_, he thought to himself, or forced himself to remember.  He had called it home for five months before Paris.  It's where he came to know Mac and Tessa, where he learned that not all people are either apathetic or against him, where he learned that indeed there are people worth trusting, and friendships worth keeping.  This is where Richie Ryan began, where he started to make his own choices, and to learn to live with the consequences of his decisions.  This is where he met the only two people on earth, aside from perhaps Emily Ryan, who by being dead does not count, that he would ever consider calling family, and meaning it.  This is where he allowed himself to be saved.

So then why, _why_ could he not stand being here anymore?  What made him want to run far, far away from this place?  What made him suddenly start treating Mac and Tessa like any other run-of-the-mill foster family?  _What made him suddenly start thinking of them as a _foster_ family?_

As he trudged up the stairs, almost afraid to find out who—if either of them—had waited up for him, he couldn't wrap his fevered mind around the answers.  Richie didn't know if he'd ever felt so lost before, and truth be told, this lost feeling coupled with the strange desire to flee far, far away from the loft, was starting to scare the ever-living crap out of him.  

Richie made his way inside the loft, acutely feeling the change in temperature.  Duncan was sitting on the living room couch, pretending to read a book (not that Richie could know that).  He'd felt Richie's pre-immortal buzz the moment he stepped into the store.  It was then that he decided to quit wearing a hole in the floor and take a seat.  The book was for effect.

"You're back," said Duncan, putting the book aside and standing up.  Only the reading lamp was on, so he didn't get a good look at the teen until he stepped within the sphere of light.  "You look like hell."  Richie tried for a shrug and a smile, but neither seemed to work.  He dropped his glance toward his shoes and saw the highlander's slippered feet come to stand barely a foot away from him a moment later.  

"What happened?" Duncan asked softly.  Richie looked up, and the blood blister he'd gotten just off from his left eye looked a disgusting purplish-black in the soft light.  It made Richie's face look that much paler.  Richie opened his mouth as if to respond, but words seemed to fail him when suddenly his throat constricted against all sound.  He dropped his gaze again and stubbornly refused to let the tears fall.  Then he felt Duncan's hand light on his shoulder.  "Come on, tough guy.  Let's get you cleaned up."  

Richie allowed Duncan to steer him over towards the couch.  He plopped down tiredly onto the cushions, grateful to be sitting down.  

"Where's Tessa?" He asked, almost not wanting to know the answer.

"In bed, pretending to sleep," Duncan answered.  She had decided to let Duncan handle Richie's return since apparently she was the one that he had the biggest problem with.  Richie just nodded dumbly and didn't say a word when Duncan disappeared into the kitchen.  The highlander returned a moment latter, carrying a bag of ice cubes wrapped up in a paper towel.  

"Would you get a little closer to the light for me?"  He asked gently, and Richie obliged him.  The teen just stared past him as the immortal inspected the blood blister that had formed where knuckles had impacted on bone.  A bruise had formed around the area, but was still mostly pale yellow and green.  It would be a horrendous black and blue by morning, however.  Satisfied that the bone framing Richie's eye socket wasn't chipped in any way and that there was no overt damage to the eye itself, Duncan ceased his inspection.  He then placed his hand lightly over Richie's other eye, obscuring his vision.  Richie flinched back slightly at the touch.

"Easy, tough guy," Duncan soothed.  "Now, how well can you see?"  Richie blinked his slightly swollen eye a few times.

"Edges are kinda fuzzy," he answered after taking a few moments to think about it.  Duncan nodded.  Then he brought his other hand into Richie's line of sight.  

"Follow my finger?" He directed.  Richie's eye tracked Duncan's movements flawlessly.  The highlander nodded again and removed his other hand from Richie's good eye.  The teen blinked both eyes rapidly, readjusting his vision.  "Your vision's off a bit because of the swelling," Duncan informed him.  "Here, put this on it."  The highlander held the wrapped ice bag up to Richie's eye, covering the blood blister, bruising, and swelling.  He held it there for a fraction longer than he thought to because it took Richie that much longer to realize that he was supposed to hold it himself.  It was when Richie brought up his hand to hold the ice in place that Duncan noticed the bruising there.  Richie felt Duncan's gaze on his hand and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"What happened?"  Duncan asked, keeping his voice gentle although he already knew the answer.

"Got in a fight," Richie replied matter-of-factly.  

"With who?"  Richie snorted a laugh.

"Better to ask who I _didn't_ fight," said Richie, sadness coloring his sarcasm as he averted his gaze.  Then he felt Duncan take his other hand and bring it into the light.  It was his left hand, which he didn't throw as many punches with, so the red welts and bruising were less pronounced.  He still hissed in pain when Duncan put slight pressure on his knuckles.

"Stay here, I'll be right back."  Duncan got up and headed for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.  While he grabbed some foul-smelling cream that supposedly had vitamin E and aloe in it to soothe pain and promote healing, as well as the roll of gauze, he tried to banish from his mind images of what Richie might have gone through after he left the loft.  The teen was right handed, and hand-dominant people throw punches with their strong hand and keep their guard with their week hand (if they haven't studied the martial arts of course).  He had seen Richie fight so he knew this to be true for the teen.  Richie would only throw punches with both hands if he were desperate, or trying to attack multiple targets at once.  Neither scenario sat well with the highlander.

He returned from the bathroom, requisite items in hand, a few moments later.  Richie hadn't moved from his spot on the couch.  Duncan opened the jar and scooped a small amount of the foul-smelling goo onto his fingertips.  Then he picked up Richie's left hand again and proceeded to massage the salve over the abrasions.  Richie winced at first, but then relaxed again.  When Duncan was done with the salve he picked up the gauze and proceeded to bind Richie's knuckles.  

"Do you want to tell me who you tried to pummel into pancakes?"  He asked Richie as he wound the gauze.  Richie sighed.

"A bunch of goons tried to steal my bike," he explained.  "I had to talk them out of it."

"What constitutes 'a bunch'?" Duncan asked, doing his best to sound more curious than concerned.

"Four," said Richie as though the number was inconsequential.  Duncan silenced a sigh.  _Well, that explains it_.

"Can I have your other hand?"  Richie brought his left hand up to replace his right at the task of icing his black eye.  He held it awkwardly for the bandaging.  Duncan took Richie's right hand and brought it over to the light, repeating the process of treating and bandaging it.  Since this was Richie's dominant hand, the red welts were larger and angrier looking, and he'd actually split the skin on the knuckle of his middle finger.  "This one's going to sting a bit," he cautioned the teen before bringing the salve into contact with the broken skin.  Richie hissed sharply and his face contorted in pain, but he said nothing.

As Duncan bandaged his hand, Richie tried very hard not to think about the earlier argument he had with his family before storming out of the loft in an angry huff.  

Of course it didn't work.  

He had been treating both Mac and Tessa like spit, and he knew it, too.  And yet he didn't seem able to stop himself.  And then he left.  Stormed out when all they tried to do was help him.  As much as he hated to even think it, he was still Richie Ryan: punk kid who mouths off to cops and gets in street fights with gangs; Richie Ryan: delinquent from the wrong side of town, his 'old neighborhood', where nothing was the same as when he'd left it and even the streets were different.  He was Richie Ryan, who left and came back again, and yet even _he _barely recognized the places where he grew up and the streets he once called home.  

And now here he sat, in the only refuge he had left in this entire city, having his hurts tended to by a man who he'd snapped at earlier, who he stormed away from in anger, and who he kept up waiting and worrying half the night while he tried to pin down why exactly he couldn't stand to be in the man's presence any longer.  Richie knew that he'd been down right insufferable as of late, and he felt guilty and ashamed for it in the same breath that he felt like he didn't owe MacLeod nor Tessa any explanations.  

He felt what he felt, that he was certain of.  He just couldn't for the life of him figure out why that was.  

As Duncan finished wrapping his right hand, Richie was more certain than ever that he didn't deserve these people caring so much about him.  He didn't deserve to be a part of their lives and their family.  How could he, when he treated them no better than his last _foster_ family?

"There," said Duncan as he finished with Richie's hands.  Richie mumbled a thank you as he transferred the ice back into his left hand.  "Do you want to talk about it?"  Richie shook his head 'no', but made no move to get up.  Duncan, who had been kneeling in front of Richie as the teen sat on the couch, now sat Indian-style on the floor in front of him, regarding the teen intently.  

"I went over there," said Richie after a while, "but it was gone."

"What was gone, Richie?"  Duncan asked, his voice soft and calm despite his overwhelming curiosity and concern.

"The shelter," said Richie.  "The one where Angie worked."  Duncan's brow furrowed.

"What do you mean, gone?"  

"They closed," Richie explained sadly.  "Not enough funding."

"That's too bad," said Duncan, for lack of something more encouraging to say.  Then: "Did you go looking for Angie?"  Richie nodded.

"I thought that someone there could tell me when she was working next, so that I could meet up with her."

"You could have just called her," Duncan pointed out with a slight smile, trying to lighten the mood.  

"Don't have her number anymore," Richie explained sadly.  Duncan nodded sympathetically.  

"I'm sure we can find it," he encouraged.  Richie just nodded.  The conversation lapsed into silence for a brief while; Duncan waiting for Richie to either stand or say something more, and Richie not knowing what else to say.  Finally he lowered the ice bag and looked down at MacLeod with both eyes.

"Mac," he began.  

"Hrm?"  The highlander sat up straighter, sensing that the conversation was about to turn serious.

"I'm sorry," Richie apologized, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.  "For earlier."  Duncan saw the sincerity in Richie's eyes, and the same quiet insecurity that he hadn't seen in months and had hoped was over.  He also saw the fever wreaking havoc in his body, but Duncan had felt the heat from that radiating off the teen from the moment he began inspecting his injuries.                 

"Don't worry about it," Duncan dismissed, but matched Richie's sincerity.  He smiled, and Richie smiled back, but Duncan saw how it didn't reach his eyes.  "You should probably go to bed," he directed, standing up himself.  "You're sick."  Richie opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.  He sighed and hung his head.

"How'd you know?"  He asked, defeated.

"I'm your friend, it's my job to know," said Duncan with a smile as he offered Richie both hands to help him up.  Richie put the ice bag down skeptically and returned the gesture.  However, instead of taking Richie by his injured hands, Duncan grabbed his forearms and used those to hoist the teen to his feet.  

It took several seconds for Richie to regain his sense of balance as fireflies danced in his vision from the sudden movement.  Duncan kept a steadying hand on his left arm, and the spell passed.  

"I don't feel so hot," Richie whined sarcastically (a feat that only he could do).  

"I'm not surprised," Duncan returned.  Richie offered that same weak smile that nearly broke the highlander's heart.  _When will you tell me what's _really_ wrong?_  Duncan sighed.  "Come on, let's get you to bed."  Richie just nodded and allowed himself to be lead down the hallway.

When they reached his room, Richie stumbled across to his bead, nearly falling with forward momentum until he eventually gave up and collapsed down onto the bed.  During this, he'd lost track of Duncan, but he needn't have worried because the highlander had followed close on his heals as he stumbled, just in case he needed to break a fall.  Duncan was now standing by the bed, gazing down on Richie with a mixture of concern, sympathy, and an almost urgent curiosity.  

"Who moved the floor?" Richie moaned in embarrassment as he crawled under the covers.  Duncan laughed slightly.

"I think you did that yourself," he said.  Once Richie was under the covers he shamelessly removed his sweatpants and threw them across the room.  He then proceeded to burrow down until barely the tops of his curls were showing.

"Night, Mac," Richie called out sleepily from beneath his blankets.  

"Good night, Richie," said Duncan.  He lingered only a moment before making his way back out of Richie's room and across the hall towards his own.  He knew that Richie was hurting, but he couldn't figure out why.  What had changed these past few weeks (aside from the glaringly obvious)?  This whole thing began seemingly when the affair with Horton and the Watchers had ended.  Duncan was at a loss as to explain it, as was Tessa.  One thing was certain though: whatever it was, Richie had made himself sick over it.  Duncan just hoped that he would find some answers before Richie stressed himself further into illness.

"How is he?" Tessa asked when Duncan entered their room.  She wasn't sleeping and sat up expectantly when the bedroom door opened.

"Sick," Duncan answered, being that it was the first thing that came to mind.  

"I already knew that," Tessa said impatiently.  "I meant, _how is he_?"  Duncan sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I really don't know, Tess," he admitted, letting his frustration show.  Tessa edged closer to him.  "He's hurting, that much I can tell.  But why…?"  Duncan trailed off, shrugging in defeat.  Tessa put her hand on his shoulder and he turned to face her.

"Duncan, he's never been very good at coming to us when something's wrong," Tessa reminded him softly.

"But he was never this closed off from us, either," Duncan pointed out.  Tessa's expression changed and she was suddenly thoughtful.

"We aren't his parents, Duncan, no matter how much we may want to be."  Duncan turned in surprise to face her fully.  

"Parents or no, he still used to confide in us."

"Or no matter how much _he_ wants us to be," Tessa continued as though Duncan hadn't spoken.  

"Tessa have you seen him lately?" Duncan asked in disbelief.  "He's pulling farther and farther away from us.  Something serious is bothering him, and for some reason he doesn't want us to know what it is."

"Are you sure?" Tessa asked.  Now Duncan was the one to become suddenly thoughtful.

"Well if he wants our help, he has a funny way of asking for it," he pointed out matter-of-factly.  His mind poured over the past week and a half or so, from when he first noticed the change in Richie.  The teen had gone from his usual self to a quiet and contemplative soul who sought solitude more and more often, and that development has morphed into the individual Duncan just put to bed.  Richie wasn't eating, slept more often than he was awake (or at least pretended to), avoided human contact like the plague, and would staunchly deny that there was anything wrong.  Duncan had hoped that he would get better once he started riding his bike, but apparently things had only gotten worse.  Now Richie was getting into fights…

"I don't know, Tess," Duncan continued.  "I've never seen him so withdrawn, so… resigned."  Tessa nodded in acceptance, but her thoughts were far away, remembering the withdrawn, resigned individual with whom she shared a flight to Paris with all those months ago.  And she remembered the conversation they had during that flight.  Tessa hoped that those memories would help her to shed light on Richie's current problems.  When she turned back to face her lover, she sighed, also resigned, hoping simultaneously that she was both correct and incorrect in her assumptions.

"I have."  


	5. Past

AN- All the thanks in the world goes out to my wonderful (and patient!) reviewers!!!  Sorry this chapter is late.  My internet connection got farked, and I only got this bucket o' bolts back online this afternoon.  Anywho, here's the next chapter.  Enjoy (and review!)!!!

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Tessa proceeded to remind Duncan of the time she and Richie spent awaiting the outcome of the fight with Grayson, most notably of the conversations they had during the transatlantic flight.  Though she had informed him of all of this before, that was nine months ago, and the immortal admitted that hearing it again helped to put things into a bit of perspective.

"One of the things he said to me before we left was that Paris was the best time of his entire life," said Tessa towards the end of their conversation on the topic.  The immortal smiled.

"I've never seen him happier," he added.  Tessa nodded.  

"That's because he had a family—a real family, for the first time since Emily Ryan died."

"I fail to see how that's changed," said Duncan, honestly confused.  

"It hasn't," Tessa reaffirmed with feeling.  "He is part of our family, no matter what—or where, or even when for that matter."  Duncan couldn't help but smile at the addendum.

"Yeah, but for some reason he seems to think it has," the highlander observed.  Tessa was silent, thoughtful.  Then: "I wonder what we did to change his mind…"  That statement, though still stemming from Duncan's confusion, held a great deal of sadness in it, and regret, even though the immortal had no idea as to what he should be feeling guilty for.  That, perhaps, was the greatest offense of all.

"I honestly don't think we've done anything," said Tessa.  

"You mean, it's more like something we _haven't_ done?" Duncan asked, suddenly thoughtful.  Tessa just shook her head.  There were no certainties here.  "Then what were we supposed to do differently?" 

"We three are a family, Duncan," said Tessa, working through her thoughts by saying them aloud.  "That fact has been stated, restated, and I had thought generally understood since you joined us in Paris.  And now… Duncan, something made Richie reconsider his position in our home—in his home!  We need to find out what it is."  Duncan nodded in agreement.

"Where do we begin?" He asked, as though the task at hand were far too monumental for two individuals to tackle.

"I think we start by talking to Richie," Tessa offered, slightly sarcastic.  Duncan laughed slightly at her need to state the obvious.

"But what do we say?" Duncan countered.  "Do we just come right out and ask him why he isn't treating us like family anymore?"  The highlander couldn't keep the hurt from his voice, and Tessa couldn't keep herself from nodding in agreement to the sentiment.  

"Better to ask why he doesn't _feel_ like family any more," Tessa corrected.  The sentiment was still hurtful, but it didn't hold any accusations.  Duncan sighed in frustration.

"Do you honestly think he'll give us an answer?"  

"We won't know until we try," said Tessa with a slight shrug that conveyed her exact answer to his question.  Duncan sighed again and rubbed his eyes, wondering if all parents go through this and then amending the statement to include the stipulation that other parents had children who thought of them as parents.  From what Duncan had observed, Richie seemed to think of him and Tessa as his older siblings.

"We never discussed it," said Duncan, voicing these thoughts.  "He and I, I mean."

"What do you mean?" Tessa asked, unsure.

"When I arrived in Paris, and you told me everything about what had happened, Tess, I was so happy.  Relationships are one thing, but a family?  I have the most wonderful woman in all the world," Duncan then pulled Tessa close and she leaned into the embrace, resting her head against his shoulder.  "And then Richie comes to us like some sort of compensation for the fact that I can't have children of my own…"  He trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

"I told you that nine months ago Duncan," said Tessa.  "We may not be able to have children, but we have Richie, and that is enough for me."  Her voice was soft from fatigue, but Duncan heard the simple honesty in that statement.  

"For me too, Tess," Duncan reaffirmed.  "I guess it just wasn't enough for Richie."  Tessa sat up straight and looked her lover in the eye.

"I think you've gotten it wrong," she said.  "Perhaps it was too much."  Duncan sighed yet again, his own fatigue showing.  He shook his head slightly, at a complete loss as to how to deal with this situation.  

"I don't know," he offered at length.  "I do know that we moved into the barge the night you told me about… what happened.  Richie and I never spoke about it.  The roles were already there; we just actually assumed them properly for the first time.  We both spoke to you, and that's how… we accepted the arrangement we'd already decided on somehow.  But I never said a word of it to him, nor he to me."  

"Well, perhaps you should start," said Tessa with a smile.  Duncan laughed slightly, returning the grin.

"I should," he agreed, both relieved to finally have a launch point for the task at hand and a bit of an understanding of some of the underlying concerns (if his hunch was correct).  Yet the regret over being a man and therefore withholding from speaking to the lad, and his guilt over that decision's final outcome (or so he perceived) colored that laugh.  Tessa could only look on him with sympathy, to her credit withholding judgment.  "But in the morning."   

***

That morning Duncan left early to go for his customary run.  Richie's door was shut, but the pre-immortal presence was humming nicely in the background.  Duncan figured that the run would help to clear his thoughts so that when he got back, showered, and generally make himself presentable again, that he could bring himself to knock on Richie's bedroom door and attempt to have some sort of deep, meaningful, problem-fixing conversation.  By the time he returned to the loft, Duncan had everything he was going to say all planned out, and as he ascended the stairs he was almost looking forward to it.

And so the distinct lack of the pre-immortal's presence was a complete and total (disappointing) shock.  Richie was nowhere to be found.  

***

Richie had awoken earlier than usual.  Or rather, since he had barely gotten any sleep the night before, when he was tired of tossing and turning, he decided to reluctantly get out of bed.  His head was pounding, and could hear himself wheezing as he breathed. 

After dragging on a clean pear of sweats, Richie stumbled into the kitchen.  The master bedroom door was still closed, but someone had turned the coffee pot on.  Richie's fevered brain finally surmised that it must have been Duncan, who put it on before going for his run.  The clock on the microwave said seven thirty a.m.  

Richie put the kettle on in direct defiance of the percolating coffee pot.  

Around eight o'clock, Richie had decided that he was lucky to have kept the tea down, and so breakfast was out of the question.  Since today was Sunday, the store was closed and Tessa was sleeping in.  Pretty soon though Duncan would be back and Tessa would get up to eventually work on her art as the men of the house did some sort of errand or chore.  

Richie decided that he definitely didn't want to be around when the highlander got back.  

Remembering that his bike was out of gas, Richie headed down to Tessa's workshop.  Somewhere amidst the part of the enormous space that also served as a basement, Richie found the empty gas can.  The nearest gas station was only four blocks away, so Richie ran back upstairs to grab his wallet before hoofing it with the gas can to the station.  

It didn't even occur to him to borrow Tessa's car, or to even ask her for it.  

The walk to the station wasn't bad.  The weather was nice for a change, though a bit on the cool side.  He filled the tank with exactly one gallon and then went inside the mini-mart to pay the cashier.  

One gallon of gas wasn't that heavy, so Richie made his way back to the loft in relatively short order.  It was only his looming illness that made him completely exhausted by the time he got back, and that was from the diminished lung capacity.  He cursed his cold vehemently as he poured the gas from the can into his bike's tank.  That being done he went inside to wash his hands in Tessa's industrial sink.  The clock on the wall read just after eight thirty.  Mac would be home any second.

Richie had two options: stumble back upstairs to bed or hop on his bike and drive it to the gas station.  However, by going upstairs he had the chance of running into Tessa, who may or may not be awake by now, and then there was of course the eventuality that Duncan would come home.  Richie didn't know anything about the whys and wherefores of his irrational emotions, but he did know that he didn't want to stick around and have another fight with them, only to leave again anyway.  Even in his irrationally emotional and fevered state, Richie realized that he had been treating the both of them unfairly, and quite frankly, that he's been a royal pain in the ass.  They didn't deserve that kind of treatment, no matter how messed up his head was at the moment.

So really he had only one option.  He headed back for his bike.

Richie spent the last of the cash in his wallet to fill the tank.  By now it was quarter of nine.  The highlander was definitely back by now.  But no matter, Richie had a full tank of gas and nowhere to be.  

After a bit of deliberation at the gas station, Richie's sufficiently addled brain remembered that Angie's mom always went to seven o'clock mass on Sunday mornings.  That meant that she should be home now, and awake and decent in her Sunday best.  If Angie was in, so much the better.  Richie hadn't seen Mrs. Burke in just as long as he'd not seen Angie, and he figured that he could just as easily spend time catching up with her while he waited for Angie to wake up (if she wasn't already).  

Richie was ringing the doorbell at a quarter past nine.  Sure enough, Mrs. Burke answered the door, still dressed in her conservative church formalwear.

"Richie?"

"Uh… Hi, Mrs. Burke," Richie greeted sheepishly, suddenly feeling very awkward and out of place.  Mrs. Burke opened the door the rest of the way.

"Come in, come in," she directed, her facing glowing in a presently surprised smile.  When Richie entered, he noticed that the place was pretty much as he remembered it.  The refrigerator was new, as were a few of the cracks in the ceiling, but other than that, it was the same old apartment.  

"I took the chance that you still went to church early," said Richie as Mrs. Burke ushered him to a seat at the kitchen table.  She smelt slightly of tea tree oil and cold cream, and that smell brought back memories.

"Every Sunday," she said with pride.  "How long have you been back from—where was it?"

"Paris," Richie answered.  "A little over a week.  Been unpacking and stuff, getting the store ready."  Mrs. Burke nodded.

"How was your vacation?"  Richie laughed.  Technically, for him, it could be counted as a vacation.  That laugh ended abruptly when he realized that the vacation was over.

"Well, Mac owns this barge," he began.  "It was really cool, kinda like a floating apartment right on the Seine in front of Notre Dame!"  Mrs. Burke suddenly looked positively giddy.

"Did you get to attend services at Notre Dame?"  Richie laughed again.  Of course she would ask that!

"Tessa took me once, you know, to see what it was like.  But it was all in French, and Latin, so I was pretty lost through most of it."  

"But what was it like inside?" Mrs. Burke asked expectantly.

"In a word?" Said Richie, smiling genuinely perhaps for the first time in a long time.  "Gorgeous."

"Do you have pictures?"  

"Mac and Tessa took lots of pictures," Richie explained, sobering a bit.  "Me not so much."

"Well you must bring them by some time!" Exclaimed Mrs. Burke.  Richie smiled again, but once again it had returned to being tinged with sadness.

"I can do that," he said, and Mrs. Burke smiled brightly.  Suddenly Mrs. Burke stood with a horrified look on her face.

"Oh, forgive me, but where are my manners!  Can I get you something?  A drink?"

"Water's fine," Richie answered amusedly.  Mrs. Burke poured him a glass of water and handed it to him before pouring herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the stove.

"I forgot you drank tea," said Richie, slightly embarrassed, as Mrs. Burke added milk and sugar to the brew.  Mrs. Burke smiled at him.  

"Would you like some?"  She offered.

"If you wouldn't mind," Richie said cautiously.  Mrs. Burke had only offered out of kindness, she did not expect Richie to accept.  Thus the look of surprise she fixed him with caused him to drop both eyes into his lap and fidget nervously in his chair.  "If it's too much trouble, I can just stick to water," he said, suddenly unsure of himself and of his welcome. 

"Of course I don't mind!" Mrs. Burke exclaimed, recovering from her initial shock.  "I just didn't think you liked tea."  Richie laughed, forgetting his insecurities.  Of course she wouldn't know that he'd developed a tea habit.

"I started drinking it in Paris," he explained as she got up and fished in the cupboard for the tea bags.

"What kind do you prefer?"  Richie thought for a moment.  He had a distinct craving for an orange spice herbal, but he also wanted something that would ease the tightness in his chest.  

"Do you have anything with mint?" He asked eventually.  This time Mrs. Burke contained her surprise.

"I think so," she said as she dug into the bottom of the jar.  "Yes, here it is."  She dropped the teabag into the cup and poured the hot water over it.  "How do you take it?"

"Straight up," Richie directed.  Mrs. Burke arched an eyebrow but said nothing as she handed him the cup.  Richie bobbed the teabag a few times, breathing in healing aroma and letting it loosen the congestion in his chest.  After a minute or so he noticed Mrs. Burke's quizzical look.  "It helps my chest cold," he explained.  

"Ah," said Mrs. Burke, familiar with the home-remedy yet surprised that Richie was.  Richie then took a few tentative sips of his tea, not really preferring the taste but knowing that it was for the greater good.  "So tell me about this new tea fetish of yours," Mrs. Burke directed conversationally.  

"Well, Mac and Tessa have this friend, Darius, he's a priest—" Suddenly Richie's expression changed completely.  He dropped his gaze to his hands, which he wound tightly around the warmth of the teacup.  "Was.  Was a priest," he corrected sadly.

"What do you mean?" Mrs. Burke asked, concerned by Richie's sudden mood swing.

"He's dead," Richie answered tonelessly.  Mrs. Burked nodded and sat back in her seat.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said sympathetically.  Richie shrugged. 

"S'ok," he said, finally looking up from his tea, but not making eye contact.  "Actually, that's why we came back here," he added.  "Mac wanted to avenge him, and he tracked the killers back here."

"What?" Mrs. Burke asked, her face paling.  Richie half-smiled in apology.  

"He was murdered, a few months back.  They killed him in his own church."  If it were possible, Mrs. Burke grew even paler.

"My word…" Was all she managed to say.  Richie shrugged and half-smiled again.

"S'ok," he said again.  "We found the guys that did it.  It's been dealt with."  Mrs. Burke nodded, though chose not to comment.  In truth, she was very fond of Duncan and Tessa, and so did her best to not so much as think about their private affairs.  However, Angie told her about how the man responsible for Gary's death wound up dead, and Duncan had been involved somehow.  She also knew about what happened between Nikki, Melinda, and the drug dealer Alexi Voshin.  Nikki and Melinda wound up escaping with the fifty thousand dollars, and the drug dealers were all caught—except for Voshin, who mysteriously vanished, and again Duncan MacLeod had been involved.  Mrs. Burke may possess a delightful brand of naïve optimism, but she was far from stupid.  

"That must have been very hard on all of you," she said sympathetically instead.  Richie nodded dumbly.

"Yeah, Mac took it pretty hard," he said into his tea.  Then in one swift mental action he banished the depressing thoughts to a far corner of his mind.  "But," he said, looking up and finally making eye contact, the strain of striving to return to normal audible in his voice.  "He knew a lot about herbal medicine, especially tea.  It's cheaper than any medicine you could by, and _usually_ tastes better."  Mrs. Burke smiled, allowing the teen the transition.  

"Well the next time you stop by, you bring those pictures and we can drink tea together," she said brightly.  Richie smiled back, closer to genuine but not quite there.

"Count on it," he said.  "But that reminds me, where's Angie?"


	6. Present

AN- Thanks to my three faithful reviewers!!! I really love you guys:) I would have had this up yesterday, but FF.net was updating their document manager. Personally, I preferred the old system, because at least that read my asteryx marks! You'll see what I mean.

AN2- Additional thanks goes to SouthernChickie, who when I was trying to come up with a title for this fic suggested the option "Past and Present". While I didn't choose that option (waning something that would fit better as a bookend for _Flight_), I took those words and used them for chapter titles, because they convey the gist of what's going on rather well IMHO.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mrs. Burke regarded him quizzically for a moment, which tipped Richie off to the fact that something was amiss.

"What I say?" He asked, en guard.

"She didn't tell you?" Mrs. Burke asked, sounding shocked and a little confused.

"Tell me what?" Richie asked, now more curious than anything else.

"She moved to Seattle five months ago," Mrs. Burke explained. "To go to the nursing school there." Richie's jaw dropped. The first thing that struck him was that Angie had moved away, that she'd gotten out, just like she said she was going to. Then there was the realization that she didn't bother to _tell_ _him _about it. "I'm surprised she didn't tell you," Mrs. Burke continued. "She'd been planning it for months."

"I see," said Richie, still processing this information. "Well, that explains why she never wrote me back." Mrs. Burke tried to look sympathetic, but she didn't quite know what to say. It was Angie's business who she spoke to and who she confided in, though the revelation did come as a shock. She had always thought that Angie and Richie were close.

"I remember you sent some lovely post cards," Mrs. Burke offered. "I always thought..." Richie smiled sadly.

"Yeah," he said on the tails of a sigh. "I wrote her when we first got there, since I didn't have time to tell her before we left." Mrs. Burke nodded, remembering. She always thought it was a bit too rushed of a decision for Tessa to take that job in

Paris... "She never wrote back. I sent her a few more, whenever I went someplace new, like Amsterdam, but she never wrote me back." Richie hung his head, feeling hurt and very much alone in that moment. 

An uncomfortable silence settled on the pair. If Angie and Richie had a falling out, then Mrs. Burke didn't hear anything of it... and apparently neither did Richie.

"So tell me about Angie," Richie directed at last. He looked up and met Mrs. Burke's eyes expectantly. Mrs. Burke smiled warmly, truly feeling bad for the teen that she had assumed was her daughter's best friend.

"Working at the shelter, she and a coworker saved up enough to get a tiny little apartment in Seattle. She applied to the nursing school out there and had gotten accepted. She and her friend wait tables out there, and she makes a lot of money in tips. Between that, and what I can afford to send her every month, she can afford to both live and go to school, but just barely. Still, she says she's happy out there." Richie smiled despite himself. 

_Angie had made it out at last. She was making something of herself. She was happy! _

Of course, she had also apparently decided to sever all ties with her old life when she left, and that included Richie. But hey, he was in Paris, so it's not like he was around to complain about it... 

"I'm glad for her," he said at length, though he couldn't help the sentiment from being bittersweet. Mrs. Burke smiled appreciatively. He seemed to be reacting much better to this news than Angie dealt with his leaving the neighborhood a year ago. Of course, Angie and her mom lived in a much better section of "the old neighborhood" than he ever did, but that didn't stop her from throwing their lots in together.

"What about the others?" Richie asked, suddenly anxious. If Angie had gotten out, then who else might be gone?

"Her other friends?" Mrs. Burke asked. Richie nodded almost fearfully. 

"All I know is that Gary's dead, Nikki's gone, and now Angie's in school in Seattle." Mrs. Burke took a few moments to try and piece together what she remembered.

"You know," she began, "a while back, a bunch of her friends made the paper. I'm pretty sure I saved the articles." Richie's face lit up before quickly becoming fraught with trepidation. At last, he would be able to find out how his other friends were faring. Of course, if there are stories about them in the paper, it could only mean two things: something very good happened to them, or something very bad.

Mrs. Burke made her way into the den where she began fishing through photo albums. She had pressed the articles neatly for Angie, but the album hadn't made the move to Seattle. Now it was just a matter of finding the right book…

While Mrs. Burke was rummaging, Richie fumbled for his wallet. He had an old, faded, and terribly warn photograph of their entire group together, taken sometime in 1988. He had written their names on the back of it, but not where they were. From the looks of it, it could have been Gary's back yard. 

"Here we are," said Mrs. Burke as she came back into the kitchen. She set an open photo album down in front of Richie, who took a deep, calming breath before beginning his study.

_Local teen turns pro_.

Richie's face lit up with a brilliant—and genuine—smile. Larry was now racing on the flat track pro circuit. Richie had always thought that Larry could do inhuman things on a motorcycle, and now it appears as though he was able to convince the professionals of the same thing. The last Richie had heard, Larry was entering competitions left and right, and posting some pretty decent times. Now, according to this article, after he won a string of junior events all along the west coast, Larry turned pro nearly seven months ago. He could be anywhere in the country right now—or even the world—living the high life and chasing his dreams. 

Richie smiled again. He had gotten out, then Angie, and it seems that Larry had made it, too. These thoughts brought Richie a small measure of comfort. They lessened his guilt of abandonment at any rate. 

Then he read the next headline.

_Local teen arrested in connection with liquor store robbery_.

Richie inhaled sharply, as though the words on the page had just slapped him in the face to wipe off that ridiculous smile. After a momentary pause to regroup, Richie read the article. Apparently Kyle, a friend he's known since they were at the orphanage together, the same friend who he learned to pick locks with and hotwire engines with, the friend who was actually adopted at thirteen and was given a relatively stable and loving home life, had at some point along the line decided that he wasn't making enough money as a grocery store cashier to support his drug addictions, and decided to turn to violent crime to supplement his income. Richie felt the bile rise in his throat as he read.

Kyle had robbed a liquor store—while flying high on speed—shot the clerk, and stole a getaway car, which lead to a high-speed chase that thankfully ended peacefully. The article was dated five months ago, around the time that Angie left, but there were blurbs that were added later in the form of minor follow-ups on the case. These said that clerk was expected to fully recover, covered the extent of the property damage, and reported on the trial and its outcome. Kyle was sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery, attempted murder, grand theft auto, fleeing from police, and a score of traffic violations ranging from misdemeanors to felonies. Even though he tested positive for a myriad of illegal substances, he didn't have any on him.

Richie closed his eyes in pain and disgust. Kyle was given a family, a loving, welcoming, _Leave it to Beaver_ family, and he threw it all away for a few cheap adrenaline rushes. Now he was serving time in a correctional facility downstate somewhere. _What a waste_.

With a heavy sigh, Richie turned the page, hoping to find something more fortunate had happened to whomever he was about to read about. He only had one good friend left unaccounted for, but Angie had other friends not included in their circle, so there was no guarantee that he'd recognize the next person.

_Local youth dies in early a.m. car accident_.

Richie mentally cursed vehemently in both English and French. 

"That happened about two months ago," said Mrs. Burke, who up until now had maintained a respectful silence while Richie sought the fate of his friends. He looked up at her expectantly when she finally broke that silence. She had a sad look in her eyes, though it was strangely detached. "Angie came back for the funeral." Richie nodded. Then he started to read the article. 

_James Sinclair, 18, of Seacouver_… 

Richie swore aloud, though in French out of respect for Mrs. Burke. The one friend unaccounted for was now… Richie almost wished that he never found out.

"That was such a tragedy," said Mrs. Burke. "I remember his parents were devastated." Richie nodded absently as he continued to read the article. Apparently James had scrimped and saved for his very first car, and then on his first night of ownership, decided to 'take it north of the city and test it against other cars'. That's journalistic speak for 'he decided to go drag racing, illegally'. The cause of the accident was listed as high speeds. The newsprint photo, though black and white, was still a horrific sight, though Richie couldn't tear his eyes away. It had been closed-casket services. 

Richie closed the photo album almost absently. His thoughts were both far away, trying his best to recall happier times when everyone was together, happy, and healthy, and also they were very much focused on the here and now. Angie was in Seattle studying to become a nurse. He never even knew that she wanted to go into nursing. _She used to freak out at the sight of blood_… Nikki was gone, with Melinda, for parts unknown. She had fifty thousand dollars to her name now, so hopefully she was putting it to good use. Larry was off racing somewhere, living his dreams. However, those happy thoughts couldn't hide the fact that Gary and James were dead and Kyle was in prison. Three made it out, and three died or were caught trying.

Richie suddenly couldn't help but picture his old neighborhood as the worst prison of all. 

Out of everyone in that photograph, three were gone and the other three were… gone. That left Richie, the happy, smiling, curly-mopped scrawny slip of a thing standing on the end with his arm around Angie, to gaze out of the photo at his counterpart of a few years later. Of them all, it was he who still remained.

However, the Richie in the photograph was nothing like the Richie staring at the group of seven smiling teenagers. This Richie had been to France, and Holland, had a decent understanding of the French language, had witnessed murders and beheadings (and had even played integral parts in a few… or stopped them from happening at all). This Richie had known a greater happiness than the one in the photo had ever thought possible, or even dared to dream of personally achieving. This Richie was trusted with people's lives and had stood up when it mattered to help those he cared about. _This Richie had people he cared about enough to stand up for when it really mattered_. 

This Richie was not the Richie in the photograph. But then, neither were any of the others. A lot has changed in the five years since that picture was taken. However, this Richie was still here. The only one still here. 

_This_ Richie wasn't _that_ Richie, but was trying to lead his life anyway. No wonder the shoes don't fit anymore…

Somewhere in the back of Richie's fevered mind, he knew these things. He knew that it wasn't the world he suddenly had a problem with, nor was it Mac and Tessa. No, somewhere, somehow, he knew that it all lies with him, just as everything has always lain with him. Richie Ryan had changed from that boy in the photograph; no amount of squirming could fit him back into that Richie's shoes again. 

But for Richie Ryan, past and present, change had always meant a bad thing. Change meant loneliness, change meant disruption, change meant people died or went away. Change meant losing the things you hold most dear. 

But change was karma, change was life's way of balancing itself. Change fought against complacency, both in happiness and misery. Change brought joy only to replace it with pain, and karma didn't care whether or not the two were related. 

And Richie didn't want to accept that he had changed. He couldn't accept it, not while also accepting how his life had changed around him. And it seems that life has changed a lot more than he originally thought, and that those changes weren't for the good. 

And Richie fought those changes. He was still fighting those changes. He would fight those changes until the bitter end, because acceptance was waiting on the other side, and to accept was to move on, and to move on was to forget, and to forget was to cause the nightmares to start again out of guilt for the ones your forgetfulness has betrayed.

There is no worse punishment than finding acceptance, and there is no worse acceptance than the kind you find for your own life. 

And so Richie had accepted that his life had changed, and that his friends had changed, because he couldn't deny the open facts. It was his willful denial of _everything else_ that made him feel like a fish out of water, even in the loft, even around Mac and Tessa, and especially now, as he sat in Angie's mom's apartment—Angie being long gone—as he accepted hers and Larry's success, Kyle's imprisonment, and James's death.

The face in the photograph taunted him until he slipped it rather forcefully back into his wallet and shoved the wallet back into his pocket. 

"I'm sorry," he heard Mrs. Burke say, mostly out of necessity, but he didn't look up. 

"Me too," he said, his tone soft and resigned. Mrs. Burke's heart went out to him.

"Do you want some more tea?" She offered. Richie debated a moment, very tempted by the offer.

"No thanks," he said at last. Then he looked at his watch. It was just past eleven. "I really should be getting back to the loft." Mrs. Burke nodded.

"It is almost lunchtime," she said. Richie stood, and Mrs. Burke stood with him.

"Thanks for the tea," he said, offering his hand in an almost formal manner. Mrs. Burke ignored it and pulled him into a hug, which he returned after brief hesitation. 

"You're quite welcome," said Mrs. Burke, smiling. "You be sure and go straight home now," she directed in motherly fashion, and Richie nodded obediently. "And do come back some time with those pictures of Paris!"

"Will do," he said as he headed for the door. Mrs. Burke followed him out and watched him kick his bike into gear. Soon he was speeding off and no longer visible to her concerned eyes.

That's when she went back inside and grabbed her personal phone book.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Who was that?" Duncan asked, seeing Tessa hang up the phone.

"That was Mrs. Burke," Tessa answered. "She just called to tell us that Richie spent the morning with her and that he was on his way home now." Duncan's brow furrowed in thought for a moment before the realization struck.

"Angie?" Tessa nodded.

"Her mother." Duncan sighed, relieved. 

"Well at least we know where's he's been all morning. Maybe seeing Angie did him some good." 

"That's just it though," said Tessa. "Mrs. Burke told me that Angie's been in Seattle the past few months."

"Well, it is possible that Richie went over there to see her mother," Duncan offered, sounding less than convinced himself. 

"Or maybe he didn't know she'd moved," Tessa added. Duncan didn't like the sound of that for how it would affect Richie… especially since it also sounded like the truth.

"Maybe," Duncan echoed, not liking the direction that his thoughts were going. Then: "What?" He'd noticed the look on Tessa's face.

"Duncan, Mrs. Burke also said that Richie wasn't well. She said that when she hugged him goodbye she could feel a fever." Duncan sighed. 

"We already knew he was sick," he said.

"But he shouldn't be out like that," said Tessa. "Especially not riding his motorcycle." 

"I know." Duncan agreed wholeheartedly with Tessa on the matter. The problem was what to do about it. "He's eighteen, legally we can't confine him to bed rest, and I don't think he'd appreciate it very much if we tried."

"A few weeks ago he would have," Tessa observed sadly.

"Aye," Duncan agreed, his conflicting emotions making him forget himself and slip into the brogue. 

"Duncan, what are we going to do?" Tessa asked, searching her lover's face for the answers that she didn't have. He tried to convey assurance, but he didn't quite succeed at the task.

"I don't know, love," he said, pulling her close and wrapping his comforting arms around her. "I don't know."


	7. Change

AN- Thanks to my 2 loyal reviewers.  I'm glad you're liking this:)  Yellowvalley: I will resolve the Angie matter, just not in this fic.  PS-"Note that QuickEdit will not recognize some non-language relevant keyboard characters."  Noted.  NOW PLEASE CHANGE IT

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tessa sat at the kitchen table fidgeting nervously.  Duncan had only been gone ten minutes, which meant that Mrs. Burke had called twenty minutes ago, and she'd set the soup to heat fifteen minutes ago.  It was simmering lightly now, just enough to keep it warm as she waited for Richie to come home. 

She was pretty sure that the drive to Angie's house only took fifteen minutes. 

After brief discussion, it was decided that the two of them being there when he returned might have seemed intimidating, and the talk they planned on having with him more like an intervention.  Neither thought boded well for Richie's likelihood of opening up to them, so it was decided that one head just actually might have been better than two.

The decision of which one of them would stay was a much more difficult one to reach.  In the end, Tessa put her foot down.  Richie had originally confided to her his feelings regarding their family.  By Duncan's own admission, the two of them hadn't even discussed it.  Tessa banished her disgust at the male species' inability to share their emotions.  Now was not the time for such thoughts.  Now, she had to mentally steel herself for a serious talk with Richie.  He had told her how he felt about their family before, when she confronted him about his behavior during their flight to Paris nine months ago.  She hopped that their rapport on the matter would help him to confide in her now.

Now, all she knew was that Richie was sick, that he had been withdrawing from them ever since the business with Horton had been concluded, and now that his best friend had moved away without telling him.  In truth, Tessa had never been so nervous to talk to Richie in her life.

And he was five minutes late and counting.

She heard Richie's heavy footfalls on the stairs five minutes later.  Quickly schooling herself into casualness, Tessa stood and retrieved a bowl from the cabinet.  She was just ladling the soup into the bowl when Richie appeared in the kitchen.

"Good afternoon," Tessa greeted brightly.  Richie was too ill and too tired to see through it.

"Morning," he mumbled tiredly.  He was so out of it that he didn't even remember what had transpired the last time he had talked to Tessa. 

"I just heated up some soup for lunch," she said as she reached up and grabbed the cabinet doorknob.  "Would you like some?"  Richie could have sworn that he wasn't hungry, but his stomach spoke for him before he could answer.  Tessa smirked.  "I'll take that as a yes."  She then opened the cabinet and grabbed another bowl.

"Thanks," Richie mumbled, half to Tessa for the gesture, half to his stomach for betraying him.  He was too tired to actually sound sarcastic, if the thought to had occurred to him.  Just then Tessa set a steaming bowl of tomato soup down in front of him.  She sat down across from him with her own bowl.  While she didn't particularly care for it, she knew that Richie preferred it and it was an easy meal to make in fifteen minutes. 

Tessa watched him eat in silence for a few moments.  It seemed to her that the spoon weighed fifteen pounds in Richie's hands, and he ate it achingly slowly.  The teen managed to finish barely three quarters of it before giving up.  He no longer moved the spoon to his mouth, though his hand stayed resting on it, and his fever-glazed eyes stared off into space.

"Something on your mind?" Tessa asked.  She knew full well that he was ill, and she also knew that there was _definitely _something on his mind.  However, she needed a place to start.  Richie blinked back to awareness.

"Hmm?" 

"You seem to be lost in your thoughts," said Tessa, secretly holding her breath as she waited for his answer.

"Sorry," Richie apologized with half-hearted sincerity.  "Just got a lot on my mind."  Tessa nodded.

"Anything you want to talk about?"  Richie mentally combed over the conversation he had with Mrs. Burke.  Could he tell Tessa those things?  Could he tell the woman who took him to art shows, helped to teach him French, and instructed him on fine dining, dancing, and wine tasting, about how his friends died in drag races or got themselves arrested for violent crime?  Just last month he was playing chess with Darius, watching French cinema without subtitles, wearing a tuxes at fancy art showings, and going museum-hopping.  Now he was mouthing off to his family, and to police officers, and getting into fist fights and mourning his friends who never made it out of the neighborhood (and harboring resentment for those who did).  Could he tell Tessa these things?  _Should_ he?

"Do you remember Larry?" He asked finally.  A success story was always the safest road.  Tessa's brow furrowed a moment in thought.

"The one who sold you your bike?"  Richie nodded.

"He's racing professionally now."  Tessa smiled.

"That's wonderful, Richie!" She said enthusiastically.  She remembered now how Richie would praise Larry up and down for his motorcycle abilities as he signed over the pink slip to his old bike.  He was a very nice boy, Tessa thought.

"He turned pro a few months ago," Richie explained, heartened by Tessa's reaction.  "I'm going to see if I can track down where he's racing.  Maybe see if I can get tickets."

"Well you just let Duncan and I know, and we'll go see the race together," said Tessa.  Richie smiled broadly, touched that she would take an interest in something he liked… something he liked from his old life.

The smile faded and it appeared to Tessa that Richie had resumed his stare off into space.  In truth, he was remembering the fight they'd had the other night. 

"What is it?" Tessa asked, concerned.  She was glad that Richie had begun talking to her, but there had to be a lot more going on than that.  Richie blinked again and dropped his gaze, but didn't answer.  "Petit?"  Richie squinted against tears when he heard her pet name fore him.  "It's Angie, isn't it," Tessa said with knowing sympathy.  Richie was momentarily elated: _a way out!_  He nodded, knowing full well that he was lying but in that moment not really caring.  Well, technically it wasn't a lie: Angie was on his mind as well, but it wasn't the thought that sparked the sudden change in mood that Tessa had picked up on. 

"How'd you know?" 

"Mrs. Burke called to let us know you were on your way home," Tessa informed him.  Richie nodded.  _That was just like her_.  "Do you want to talk about it?"  Tessa's voice interrupted Richie's thoughts and he looked up.

"Hmm?"

"Do you want to talk?" Tessa repeated, her tone soft and concerned.  Richie paused for serious consideration.

"What's there to talk about?" He said at last.  "She's going to nursing school in Seattle now."  Tessa nodded.

"Yes, but she didn't tell you she was leaving."  Richie shrugged.

"It's not like I told her when I moved in here," he said.  "Or when we went to Paris."

"Do you think that's why she didn't tell you?" Tessa asked.  Richie turned to her in surprise.

"I guess," he answered passively.  While he too had considered that Angie's silence had been some form of retribution, he didn't expect Tessa to draw similar conclusions.  "Or maybe she just forgot."  Tessa was about to address this thought when suddenly she paused, a new understanding dawning on her.

"Why would she do that?" She asked carefully.  Richie shrugged again.

"Who knows," he answered.  "Stuff got in the way maybe?"  Then quieter, so that it was almost a whisper: "I did."  Tessa chose her next words carefully.

"Which would you prefer: that she deliberately did not tell you, or that she simply forgot to tell you?"  Once again Richie looked up at Tessa in surprise.  It was a simple question of which is better: to be purposely ignored by your friends, or to be innocently forgotten by them.  Neither option was favorable, for one meant that to Angie, Richie wasn't worth informing, and the other meant that he wasn't even worth remembering.  Richie hung his head dejectedly, feeling lost and very much alone—and fully aware that he felt so whilst in the loft, in the company of Tessa, and detesting himself for having such traitorous thoughts.

"The first one," he answered at last, and Tessa heard the little-boy-lost in his voice that had remained hidden since their flight to Paris.  "At least then she's still thinking of me."

"Oh, petit," Tessa kneeled next to his chair and enveloped the teen in her arms and immediately felt the heat radiating from his seemingly too-wiry frame.  _He's lost weight_, Tessa noted, her concern only increasing.

Richie hesitated but eventually leaned into the embrace.  The last time Tessa had held him thus was right after Darius's death, when Duncan and Hugh Fitzcairn were off hunting those responsible.  That was the last time Richie had openly cried in front of anyone.  For some reason, it had felt alright to do so back then.  Now… 

Tessa held him close and he rested his head beneath her chin.  They didn't speak, but Richie clung to her arms like a lifeline.  Tessa smelled softly of lavender and rose, a mixture of her perfume and shampoo, as she always did whenever Richie was close enough to take in her scent.  Since it is the most powerful memory trigger, Richie had no choice in the matter when he instinctively burrowed himself in Tessa's lithe but surprisingly strong arms, seeking half-remembered feelings of protection and maternal warmth.  Regardless of his waking opinions of his home life, the deeper parts of him could not deny the bond he and Tessa shared.

"Did you keep in touch with your friends when you first moved here?" Richie asked, breaking the minutes-long silence they had been enjoying.  Tessa was startled but not altogether surprised by the question.

"In the beginning I did," she answered wistfully.  "My friends and I kept correspondence religiously for years."  Then she sighed.  "Over the years, we wrote less and less.  Now it's mostly just Christmas cards we send back and forth."  Tessa felt Richie nod against her chest.

"Did you look them up when you went back?" He asked, his tone holding that same childlike innocence as before.

"Some of them I did," Tessa answered. 

"But not all?"  Tessa shrugged.

"People change Richie," she said.  "They grow apart.  You find that you don't have the same interests anymore, and that you're leading your own separate lives."

"And you forget your old friends in favor of your new ones," said Richie knowingly.  Tessa wasn't entirely sure that he was referring to Angie when he said this.

"It's the way it works sometimes," she said, trying to soften the blow of her explanation.  "Rest assured that your old friends are moving on and finding new friends the same as you."

"Is that supposed to make it better?" Richie asked bitterly.  Tessa sighed and held him closer.  Richie tensed but didn't attempt to withdraw from the embrace.

"Richie, we each set our own priorities in life," Tessa explained.  "If a friendship is important to you, you make it a priority."  It was the cold logic in that statement that upset Richie the most.  He knew where his priorities had lain, and they certainly hadn't been with anything associated with Seacouver and his friends here.  His life was for Mac and Tessa alone.  It wasn't his right to question or judge Angie when she did the exact same thing.  Surmising that he now knew what she felt when he waltzed out of her life, _twice_, Richie exhaled a heavy sigh.

"Change isn't always a bad thing," Tessa pointed out while she smoothed Richie's hair back away from his face.  "Your friend Larry has changed for the better, and now Angie is trying for the same.  You should be happy for them."

"Dress a pig in linens and it's still a pig," said Richie.  Tessa couldn't help but laugh.

"That sounds like one of Duncan's sayings," she said.  Richie smiled slightly.  It was something that Reinhardt had mentioned when Richie was his captive, but he wasn't going to tell Tessa that.  The smile faded quickly, however.

"I mean, Larry races bikes now, but he's still Larry.  And Angie goes to nursing school in Seattle, but she's still Angie.  They didn't change.  Just their situations."

"And how would you know that?"  Tessa asked seriously.  Richie didn't have an answer for her.  "We are all shaped by our experiences Richie.  We learn from them, and that new knowledge changes us."

"And you think that Larry playing with the big boys or Angie learning how to be a nurse will change who they truly are?"  Richie asked in disbelief.  "Look at Mac.  He's four hundred but he's still the same person he was back then, or so said Fitz.  Sure he's smarter, more well traveled, and better with a sword, but he's still Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."  Tessa paused to consider this.

"Yes," she said cautiously, "but who would he be if he hadn't met Connor, or Darius?  Would he be the same person?"  Now Richie paused for consideration.  It was an interesting concept: who we are is dependent upon the people we meet.  It's also one that Richie wasn't so sure that he believed in anymore.  After all, he thought that meeting Mac, Tessa, and Darius had changed him.  In truth, he was smarter, more well traveled, and spoke a bit of French, but he was still Richie Ryan from the bad part of Seacouver who mouths off to cops and gets into street fights.

These morbid thoughts were interrupted by a coughing fit.  Richie leaned forward and clutched at his chest as he coughed, and Tessa rubbed his back soothingly until the fit passed.  Finally he collapsed back against her, pale and out of breath. 

"You aren't well, petit," she said, concerned, brushing the hair out of his face and feeling the fever and perspiration. 

"Stupid chest cold," Richie mumbled, and Tessa laughed slightly.

"Why don't you go take a nap," she suggested.  "I'll bring you some cough syrup."  Richie nodded and shoved himself off the chair onto his feet, using the table to brace himself.  Twenty minutes and a dose of Tylenol and cough syrup later, Richie was lost in a fitful sleep, wheezing slightly as he breathed.

Richie awoke to another coughing fit a few hours later.  The Tylenol had lessened the headache, but he couldn't deny the tight feeling in his chest that made it difficult to breathe.  Knowing that it was too soon to take more medicine, Richie plodded out to the kitchen to put the kettle on, hoping that more peppermint tea would make him feel better.

Once the water was set to boil, Richie decided to head down to the store.  Neither Tessa nor Mac were anywhere to be found in the loft, so that was the next logical conclusion.  He found Duncan polishing antiques in the store and the 'closed' sign in the window.

"Afternoon, Richie," Duncan greeted warmly but distractedly as he rubbed another coat of some vile-smelling oil over the blade of an ornate dagger. 

"Afternoon," Richie answered back, his voice sounding hoarse and strained.  Duncan looked up in concern, giving the teen his full attention.  "Where's Tessa?"

"She's meeting with a potential client," said Duncan.  "Are you feeling alright?"  Richie snorted a laugh and tried to restrain the coughs that followed.

"I have the cold from hell," he said with less than amused sarcasm.  "I took some stuff a few hours ago, before my nap," he continued, cutting off the highlander's obvious question.  Duncan nodded.

"Did it help?"  Richie shrugged.

"The Tylenol did," he answered.  "But the cough syrup didn't.  I have the kettle on now."

"Peppermint tea?"  Richie nodded.

"Hopefully that'll help more than the syrup.  At any rate it'll taste better."  Duncan nodded.  Before Tessa left, she told him of everything said between her and Richie.  While it was obvious that his thoughts were currently centered around his friends and their current situations, Richie had been having problems _before_ he knew about that.  Something else was definitely eating at the lad, and if Duncan was correct, he had a pretty good idea of what it was.  After all, one cannot talk about change and learning and growth they way he did without harboring any self-reflective thoughts.  Seacouver to Paris to Seacouver again, all because of Darius.  The roots of this dilemma had to lie in that.

"So how's Mrs. Burke?" Duncan asked, needing a place to start this much-needed conversation.  Richie shrugged again.

"She's fine," he answered passively.  Then: "I guess Tessa told you what happened."

"She did," Duncan confessed.  "Do you want to talk about it?"  Richie grinned, but it was directed towards the highlander's predictability.

"Tessa and I already talked about it," he said dismissively.

"You talked about Angie, and Larry, and how old friends can sometimes grow apart," said Duncan.  "That's barely the tip of the iceberg, and you know it." 

"No," said Richie, shaking his head.  "But apparently you do."  That statement held a bitter resentment that Richie didn't even know he was carrying, and it startled him. 

"I know that something's been bothering you since before you learned about your friends," said Duncan, effectively ignoring Richie's tone. 

"I've been sick," Richie said defensively.

"You made yourself sick by going out in your shirtsleeves in the cold and by not eating right," Duncan corrected.  "Both are signs that something's troubling you."

"Why does something have to be troubling me!?!" Richie snapped.  "Everyone has mood swings, and Richie Ryan _not_ being hungry isn't exactly the third sign of the apocalypse."

"No, but you sure seem to be treating whatever's bothering you like it's the end of the world," Duncan pointed out, trying to keep his tone light in the face of Richie's frustrations.

"Well maybe what's bothering me is the huge lack of privacy around here!" Richie retorted with spite.  It took all of Duncan's strength to remain calm himself.  This was getting them nowhere.

"Tessa and I are just worried about you," he said softly. 

"Worried," Richie scoffed.

"Yes, worried," Duncan echoed immediately. 

"Because you care," Richie concluded with biting sarcasm.

"We do," Duncan insisted.  "We care about you and we want to know what's bothering you.  We want to help."  This time Richie laughed.  The laughter was light, but full of sarcasm, anger, and an almost sick enjoyment of the thoughts that were about to escape on its heels.

"You've already helped me enough, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Richie said with feigned sadness.  Duncan stood up straighter.  "You said you talked to Tessa about what I said earlier?  Well, for some reason I think she missed the boat with that one."

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked before he could stop himself.  Richie looked almost triumphant for the fact.

"Oh I bet she told you all about how I'm having trouble dealing with my friends changing and moving on, or about how I don't want to accept that our lives are different now and the friendship suffers because of it, and that it makes me sad."  Richie sounded anything but sad.  In fact, he was starting to make the highlander nervous. 

"Life can't exist without change," Duncan offered as Richie descended the rest of the stairs into the store. 

"I guess you would know more than most," said Richie dismissively.  "And you're right.  Things change all the time.  People, however…"  Richie was now standing not three feet away, and from this distance Duncan could see the fever shining brightly in his eyes. 

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked carefully.  _NOW we're getting somewhere!_

"Don't you know?" Richie asked, suddenly confused.  He shook his head and then continued.  "For all we learn, for all we see, for everyone we know and all we do, we never change.  We're still the same old people."

"Of course people change," Duncan corrected.  "We learn, we grow, we accept and we don't accept, but no one lives in a vacuum.  Life affects everybody."  Richie laughed snidely again.

"Oh really?"  He asked with condescending amusement.  "How much have _you _changed in four hundred years?  Aside from the fact that now you can read and write and swing a sword better than most?"  It was Richie's tone that made Duncan silence his answer.  Nothing he would say would get through to the teen right now, for Richie was babbling from a fever-wracked mind, barely in control of his faculties.  Duncan could hear the wheezing breaths the lad was taking.

"But why use you for an example?"  Richie continued with a dismissive wave of the hand.  "Whatever you tell me I have no way of proving anyway."

"Should we use you then?"  Duncan asked, but he already knew the answer.  It was a sick truth that Richie's sudden desire to unload his mind was induced by the undoubtedly dangerously high fever because that's what it took to lower the teen's defenses enough to enable the truth to come out at last.  Duncan feared for Richie's health, but he also desperately needed the 'conversation' to continue. 

"I always knew you wanted to use me," Richie joked, but the venom in his voice cut at Duncan like a knife.  "But why not?"  He laughed again, but coughed his way out of it.  Duncan took a step closer in concern, but Richie got the fit under control relatively quickly.  "Let's talk about how I haven't changed," Richie continued.

"Of course you've changed!" Duncan interjected.

"Have I?" Richie scoffed.  "Let's take a good look, shall we?  When you found me, I was a smartass little thief who could pick locks as easily as picking fights and had a healthy disrespect for authority.  Who am I now?  Well, I can speak French pretty good, know the value of herbal tea, play chess fairly well and can tell a Monet from a Matisse, but that's all crap, MacLeod.  I'm still Richie Ryan, punk kid who mouths off to cops, gets into fights on the street, and still reaches for the knife I stopped carrying months ago."

"Richie—"

"Oh I'm not finished, MacLeod," Richie insisted, using the tone that he'd heard from many a lecturer before.  "You say that we are all shaped by our learning experiences?  Well what have I learned since you've known me?  I've learned that there are people running around who think they'll live forever but are really just as vulnerable as us ordinary people.  I've learned that sometimes homicide is justified, and that revenge really can be the right choice.  I've learned that there are people who live above and outside the law, and that lying and keeping secrets is a necessary part of life, and that the police only get in the way.  I've learned that I'm a pawn used by the big boys to get what they want and that there always was a bigger picture that I'm not a part of." 

"Richie…" Duncan tried again.  Richie sounded defeated, almost hopelessly resigned. 

"But those were all things I knew before I met you."

"What are you afraid of?" Duncan asked sincerely.  The question took Richie by surprise.

"What makes you think I'm afraid of anything?"  He asked, once again confusion dominating his voice.  "I don't have anything to be afraid of." 

"I know you don't mean that," said Duncan with quiet authority. 

"Of course I do," said Richie, sounding very childlike.  "My friends are gone, or dead, or in jail.  This wretched city is nothing but a pit of bad memories, and I've already lost Paris.  I've nothing left."

"What about your family?"

"What family?" Richie answered almost inaudibly.  Duncan winced.  _Oh, that hurt_. 

"This family," Duncan insisted.  Richie laughed, and that laugh tore at Duncan's very soul.  How he desperately wanted to believe that this was only the fever talking!

"I had a family that took me in, taught me to be respectable, actually made me feel welcomed, and that I belonged," Richie explained, almost elegizing.  "They took me to Paris, showed me how really great the world can be, and that there are truly great people in it.  They opened my eyes to what family could be."  Duncan's breath hitched.  This definitely sounded like a funeral address.  "And then they took it away from me again," Richie continued, his voice sounding of the tears that his fevered eyes would not produce. 

"They took me back here, where I'm just the punk thief who disrespects authority, gets into fights, befriends druggies and unwed mothers, or drag racers, or violent criminals.  Paris was snatched away from me, and I'm back here again, where every street corner reminds me of a crime and every off-white duplex reminds me of… worse things.  I was having serious conversations about the architecture in the Louvre!  Now whenever I see an antique," Richie picked up the long-forgotten dagger and examined it closely, "I think of how much it would fence for."  Dagger still in hand, Richie redirected his attentions to Duncan.  "My family taught me that people don't change, not really," he said, sounding as if he were referring to different people.  "They made me think that I could and then showed me that I couldn't…"  Richie's arms fell limp at his sides as the tears finally formed.  He sobbed once and then Duncan had his arms around him.  The highlander did not like the heat of the fever he felt.    

Richie wrapped his arms around Duncan's shoulders and cried, not caring about saving face or anything resembling appropriateness in this fever-induced state.  He had just bared his soul about the enormous depth of his perceived loss, the fever serving to articulate his thoughts in a way previously impossible, and so he was able to rant to Duncan like a prophet, speaking of thoughts he'd never been able to crystallize before, and doubtfully would even remember later.  For the first time in as long as he could remember, Richie cried for himself.  He'd cried for others, and he'd cried for pain, but this was entirely selfish; he was grieving for his own life this time, and for the hurts that ran too deep to express any other way, and for the feelings of loss, loneliness, and isolation that he wasn't able to pin down until just now, and boy did he drive the point home.

"Richie," Duncan, tears threatening in his own eyes, was grateful that he finally knew what was going on.  Finally, the answers they were seeking!  It all made sense now: Richie's subdued behavior, his withdrawing from them, his attitude problem—all of it.  Returning to Seacouver had an unpredicted side effect for the teen, one that none of them saw coming.  They were an understood family in Paris.  Somehow, Richie perceived that the arrangement ended when their stay in Paris ended.  If Duncan thought about it harder, he would see that Richie had thought it over when Darius was murdered.  "Richie," he began again, his voice clearer this time.  "Your family loves you."

Richie laughed a sad and bitter laugh.

"My family," he said, both wistful and sarcastic.  He and Duncan were still locked in the embrace, but suddenly all feelings of comfort were chased away.  Richie suddenly felt trapped, and he hated that feeling.  He felt like that in every foster home, and in every other false embrace… and in every darkened cellar and closet… and in every foreign bedroom.  Suddenly hugging Mac was a vile, hateful thing.  Suddenly it was tainted by transferred memories of other times and places.  Suddenly it made Richie very afraid, but then the teen realized that he was the one with the upper hand.

"The murderer and his lover," said Richie almost lovingly into MacLeod's ear.  "But at least they taught me how to get bloodstains out of carpet."  Duncan realized the implications a fraction too late.  He gasped slightly as the again-forgotten knife was thrust into his side, breaking the skin and slicing through the kidney.  Richie felt the sudden warm rush of blood as it spilled over the guard and onto his hand.   Duncan's eyes were wide in surprise as Richie withdrew the knife and backed away, letting the highlander fall against him before sinking to the floor.  The shock turned to confusion, and then into a silent question of 'why?' before they glazed over in death. 

Richie watched this happen almost in slow motion.  Suddenly it wasn't every foster father and school bully in his arms… or vice versa.  It was MacLeod again.  MacLeod who looked at him with such surprised eyes, MacLeod who know lie crumpled on the floor of the shop, MacLeod who he'd just murdered and whose blood was staining his hands.

No, not murdered.  _You knew he was immortal!  _Escape.  A surprise move, and then an escape.  But why did he suddenly feel the need to escape from MacLeod?  He couldn't quite remember as the knife dropped from his fingers, forgotten again.

But escape was on his mind, even if the train of thought derailed itself at the sight of so much blood.  He needed to get out of there!  Mac would wake up soon, and Richie's fevered brain feared the consequences of his action...  of his betrayal.

Richie turned on his heels and fled, through the workshop and out the back door to his bike.  Duncan was still dead when Richie kicked the motorcycle into gear and sped off, and though he didn't realize it, he was now covered in the highlander's blood. 


	8. Searching

AN-Sorry for the bit of delay, life interfered n'all. Anywho, thanks to each and every single one of my reviewers. You guys are great!

On that note, I am proud to say that I received my first ever anonymous flame! (Yes, I said 'proud'.) My first response was to delete it, for it contained nothing but opinion, which is nice but doesn't help me as a writer. But looking back, I feel that it might have been a bit rash of me. Everyone, after all, is entitled to their opinion. And only those who have strong opinions decide to share them in the form of review. Therefore, I have decided to post that review at the bottom of this chapter. If anyone agrees with it, if you could find a constructive way of telling me, I'd appreciate that. After all, reviews are meant to help an author better their craft.

"Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong," Oscar Wilde.

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Duncan MacLeod's eyes snapped open as he took a deep, gasping breath. Pain immediately surged in his side, only to quickly dissipate, and he could taste the metallic tang of dried blood in the back of his throat that made him gag as he took even more breaths. From his spot on the shop floor, Duncan briefly wondered which was worse: the dying, or the waking up. 

That was until his memories caught up with him. He was sitting in a puddle of his own blood on the floor of the antique store because he'd been stabbed in the side... by Richie. Duncan cursed audibly both in Gaelic and in English as he quickly stood. His clothes were a mess, as was the floor, and the side of the display case where he'd been standing that was currently speckled with splatter from when he hit the floor. The bloodied dagger was resting a few feet away, where Richie dropped it. However, Duncan could tell that, by the lack of his pre-immortal presence, that Richie was nowhere in the loft.

Too many thoughts and emotions surged at once and the highlander had to bring a hand to his temples to assuage the onset of a headache (which could also be blamed on dehydration from the blood loss). He needed to find Richie. He needed to find out what got into Richie, what made the teen suddenly decide to kill him. He needed to know why. Was it something he had done? Something he failed to do? Richie had mentioned Paris, and how he hated leaving. Did this have to do with some sort of fear of abandonment? Was Richie angry? Depressed? Acting out because of his fever—_Oh God! Richie is seriously ill!_

Duncan needed to find Richie, to make sure that he was safe and receiving proper medical treatment. Duncan needed... a shower, a change of clothes, and to clean up the blood stains in the store, before he could even contemplate leaving to search for Richie.

The first thing he did was to take the dagger into Tessa's workshop and wash it thoroughly in the industrial sink. Once he was certain that no dried blood remained, he brought it back into the store and locked it in his desk in the office. He would need to polish it again, he thought absently, as the itch from the wet polish in the now-healed wound finally faded away.

That chore completed, the highlander went back into the workshop to get the janitor's mop and caddy. He filled the caddy with water and added an industrial floor cleaner and then wheeled the mop and caddy out into the store. More stunning multi-lingual curses escaped his lips as he dropped the soaking mop onto the stain. However, Duncan's efforts seemed only to spread the stain around. It took a whole ten minutes before Duncan finally gave up and wheeled the mop and caddy back into the workshop. He then filled a bucket with water and floor cleaner, and grabbed a sponge.

Twenty minutes and a dictionary of profanity later, the store floor and display case were spotless again. Duncan stood and stretched his back as he threw the sponge back into the bucket.

"Duncan, why is the-" Tessa entered suddenly from her workshop, having returned from her meeting. She stopped short when she noticed Duncan's appearance.

"Oh my god."

"It's not as bad as it looks," Duncan reassured, though his voice lacked the qualities.

"What happened? Was it an immortal?" Tessa had closed the gap between them and they were now standing face to face. He fingers delicately probed at the gash through his shirt. Duncan shook his head as he pushed her hand away.

"Well if not an immortal than what? A burglar? And where's Richie?" Tessa rapidly fired off her questions, her face distraught from shock and worry.

"It wasn't a burglar," said Duncan. "And Richie isn't here."

"Well if he's not here then where is he?" Tessa questioned impatiently.

"I don't know," Duncan admitted sadly. "But we have to find him."

"Is he alright?" Duncan didn't answer, because he didn't know exactly how. "Duncan?"

"No, he's not alright," Duncan admitted at last, on the tails of a sigh. Tessa paled.

"He wasn't here, was he?" Duncan merely nodded. At Tessa's insistent look he added:

"He's the one who killed me."

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Richie rode in no particular direction. His mind was an unintelligible jumble at the moment as far too many thoughts and emotions surfed in and out of focus. He was angry that this blasted fever made him reveal his hidden feelings (at least the fever was where he was placing his blame). He was angry at Angie for casting him aside, he was angry at Kyle for being stupid, and angry at James for dying. He was even mad at Larry for being successful and at Nikki for not bothering ever to write or call. But most of all, he was angry with MacLeod for having to avenge Darius, which meant bringing the family back to Seacouver, and he was mad at Seacouver for being different than when he left it. He was angry at the aching loneliness that he felt and even angrier that he was given a taste of paradise before having it ripped away from him for good, because now Darius was dead, they were in Seacouver, and the hunting and killing of mortals was a fine and dandy pastime if given the right circumstances.

Richie wondered next what Darius would have thought of such a pastime.

The teen was a mass of unfocused rage simply because there were entirely too many targets. Between his so-called friends, the watchers, Darius, Seacouver, and MacLeod, Richie couldn't for the life of him stay focused long enough to process a coherent thought. All he knew was that he had been to heaven, for Paris granted him everything that he'd ever wanted, and surely wasn't that heaven? And then Darius died, and he was ripped away from that place, from those feelings, and even if he chose to stay in Paris, what would have been the use? MacLeod would have gone off hunting mortals, and Tessa would have gone wherever MacLeod was. Who would stay in Babylon after it's fall? So Richie returned with them to Seacouver, and stood idly by while MacLeod murdered the mortals who murdered Darius on holy ground. Darius wouldn't have wanted that. Richie'd only known the man for a few sparse months, and he was certain of that fact. MacLeod had known the priest for centuries…

It was MacLeod's selfishness, and his pride, that made him want to go after those watchers, or so Richie reckoned. He didn't do it for Darius, he did it for himself. To make himself feel better about it. To make his death easier to accept. And the act had cost Richie the only true, pure, unconditional happiness that he's ever known.

And Tessa had just stood by and watched it happen, more concerned with Duncan's feelings concerning the death of his long-time friend. She was supposed to be his _mother_, it was accepted and assumed. And yet, in the end, her only concern was for Duncan, placing her on the exact same level as every _foster_ mother that he's ever had. And he had really hoped that she'd be different.

There was anger, true, but there was also betrayal. Richie had wanted parents, true parents, like he has never known before. And in Paris, he'd had just that. Duncan so desperately wanted to be his father, perhaps because he could not have children of his own, Richie reckoned. And so it was assumed, and so it was… until more important things crept up and it was back to the status-quo. And Richie was forced to follow along because he was wholly dependent on these people, and this time there wasn't the DSS to bail him out of it. He went from being their son to being their puppy, and Richie _hated_ that feeling.

And this was Mac and Tessa. They were supposed to be different.

Rage, and betrayal.

And now Seacouver was different from when they'd left it, and the changes weren't for the better. Now Richie was alone here, in a place he hated (because that place represented everything that fleeing to Paris had amended), and every blessed thing about those nine months abroad had been undone by avenging blade of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who was entirely too selfish and prideful to ever be granted the rights to a child.

And Richie had learned the hard way.

And now he was on his bike, simmering with his anger, and his feelings of hurt and betrayal, and his distain for Mac and Tessa, for their behavior, and his self-pity, for being out in the cold again without a true place to call home.

In his haste, he was completely unaware of exactly how bad off his illness was, and in his hurried actions to leave, the fact that he was covered in MacLeod's blood had somehow slipped his mind.

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Duncan MacLeod emerged from the bedroom after what stood to be the quickest shower and change in his entire four hundred years.

"But Duncan, you don't even know where to begin looking," said Tessa, more in defeat than in protest.

"I'll start looking in Richie's old neighborhood," said Duncan as he quickly secured his katana in the hidden pocket of the lining of his duster. Tessa involuntarily shivered at the juxtaposition of the moment. "Odds are that's where he'll head first." Then the highlander donned his coat and headed for the stairs into the store. Tessa's voice stopped him half-way down.

"But Duncan, what if you _do_ find him?" She asked, her voice uneasy. Duncan tensed briefly at the memory of what had just transpired between he and the teen. Then he sighed.

"He's very sick, Tess," he said at last, not turning around. "He needs help." Duncan continued walking, only to have Tessa's voice stop him again.

"Will he let you help him?" Another tense moment, but this time Duncan simply held his breath.

"He doesn't have a choice," said Duncan, more ice in his voice than he had intended. He heard Tessa bite back a gasp behind him before he continued into the loft and through the door to the workshop, heading for the back ally and the T-bird. Tessa watched him go, her unease mounting with every step he took. Finally she gave up and allowed herself to slink down to the floor, sitting herself at the top of the stairs. There, she put her head in her hands, and cried.

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Duncan drove towards Richie's old neighborhood, intent on finding the teen. All the while, his mind played over everything that Richie had said to him. He'd used the word 'betrayal'…

Duncan felt guilty, but of course, such an emotion was second nature to him, donned as easily as the black duster he was wearing now. Richie was his ward, if one wants to be technical. No longer his employee when they were in Paris, no longer the punk kid that MacLeod had decided to give a chance to. And he had no longer been just an older (Ha!), wiser friend to the teen. No, Richie was his _son_. In Paris, Richie was the child that he and Tessa had always wanted, but then thought that they could never have. Richie was a gift to him to make up for the fact that he could never have children.

Richie was a boy, a human being. Not some gross form of compensation or karma for his life. And in typical MacLeod fashion, the highlander had always put the boy's safety and security above all else (but not enough to send him away, where he probably would have been safer… As safe as all pre-immortals are, anyway. Was that 'probably' truly concern over pre-immortal hunters, or truly his own stubborn vanity, his selfishness in wanting a son of his own?).

Oh, he made sure the lad was safe, all right. He had sent him to Darius to be sure of that fact. But was he ever concerned for Richie's well-being, in more than just the corporeal sense? Duncan's automatic answer was a definite 'yes', but obviously Richie didn't see it that way. And was he concerned for Richie, or even Tessa for that matter, when he flew half-way around the world to avenge Darius?

Was he even thinking of Darius?

Duncan sighed and nearly laughed at the irony of wanting more than anything to ask for the immortal priest's sage advice right about now. But he couldn't do that anymore. Darius was dead, they were back in Seacouver, reopening the store, and generally trying to pick up where they left off nine months ago.

It was as though Paris was a dream, a gem of perfect happiness, like those snow globes showing perfect winter scenes that one can only dream of and never really achieve.

Ones that Richie has dreamt of all his life. One that Richie had. One that Duncan's need to avenge Darius had seemingly stripped away.

Richie had used the word 'betrayal', and Duncan believed him. After all, had he just proven that he was no better than those God-awful foster fathers Richie so rarely talks about in detail?

_Will that be how he refers to me, years from now?_

Duncan sighed a heavy sigh, and feared deeply that there was no way to undue that damage he'd so happily and unwittingly caused.

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Tessa was wrenched from her reverie by the sound of a ringing phone. Standing quickly and wiping her eyes, she was able to determine that it was the Antique store phone that was ringing, so she hurried downstairs to answer it.

"Richie?" She asked expectantly when she answered the phone.

"Mrs. Noel?" Tessa sighed in disappointment.

"Oh, hello Mrs. Burke. What can I do for you?"

"You don't sound well at all, Mrs. Noel," said Mrs. Burke with concern.

"I'm fine," Tessa snapped, but instantly regretted it. Her apology was cut off by the sound of soft chuckling coming down the line.

"You're just worried about Richie is all," she said knowingly, to Tessa's astonishment.

"How did you—"

"Mr. MacLeod stopped by here a few minutes ago, looking for him," she explained.

"And?" Tessa asked, daring to hope for some good news.

"Well I don't know where he is," said Mrs. Burke. Tessa's face fell. "But I think I might have an idea of where he could be." Tessa perked up immediately.

"Where?"

"Well I didn't think of it when Mr. MacLeod stopped by, but whenever Angie had trouble finding him, she'd go looking for him in the cemetery at St. Peter's."

"The cemetery?" Tessa repeated, confused.

"That's where Emily's buried."

"Oh, thank you, Mrs. Burke!" Tessa exclaimed excitedly. Mrs. Burke nodded, not that Tessa could see it.

"You just call me the minute you find him," she directed sternly.

"Of course," Tessa promised. She hung up the phone and ran back up to the loft to grab her own jacket and keys. She scribbled out a brief note to Duncan in the (unlikely) event that he returned before she did before heading swiftly down to the store, through the workshop, and to her Mercedes, intent on following up on Mrs. Burke's lead.

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Richie was sitting on the damp grass of the cemetery. The grave was no more than an engraved concrete slab lying down on the grass beside him, but it was all he had left of Emily Ryan, his first foster mother and the woman whose name he had taken thereafter. She was the closest thing he had to a mother.

Except of course for Tessa, but he wasn't thinking of her right now, and how she blindly followed her lover back and forth across the globe without so much as a concern for anyone else… even the teenager she'd claimed as a son.

But it wasn't Tessa's fault. She hadn't gone against MacLeod, but then she didn't go seeking vengeance either. And she so desperately wanted to be his mother. She had assumed the role so naturally, and so perfectly, that it was easy for the three of them to pretend it was true.

But that's all it was. Pretending. She wasn't his mother, and never would be. He was too old for a mother when they met, anyway. Perhaps, they had all forgotten that.

And now, back in Seacouver, she wasn't his mother anymore. Nor was MacLeod his father, though those roles hadn't been so natural for either of them to fill. Too many scars and painful memories on both sides… not that Richie was aware of that. But Tessa had been his mother in Paris, and now the charade was over. Now, she still tried, she still went on pretending, but he saw through the masquerade. And sitting here, by Emily's grave, he couldn't decide if it offended him or not.

He didn't have a mother, he didn't have a father. He didn't have a family. All he had was Emily's grave… and Gary's grave and James's grave, and memories of Nikki and Angie, who chose to forget him, and of Kyle, whose life was over anyway, and of Larry, using a successful present and a bright future to erase the nightmares of the past. Oh, how Richie had wanted that for himself! That chance to escape, to make it out, to make it through, to make it past.

But then he'd had it. And it was short-lived. And it was over now. And here he was, sitting on the dew-damp grass beside Emily's grave, back in Seacouver, on the other side of heaven, willing himself to forget everything happy about Paris because forgetting is better than living with the pain of loss.

His fever was spiking, his chest was hurting, and he was covered in MacLeod's blood, and his mind latched onto the fact that the highlander could bleed and bleed and bleed and yet never die. So stands true of the human spirit, and in this way Richie had faith in himself that he would move past this, move out, move on, escape, and be happy somehow. So when he saw with fever-bright eyes Tessa walking briskly through the damp fog that had settled on the cemetery, her face seeming serene (though in reality she was too much in shock at actually having found Richie to convey much else), and she appeared an angel to him, and he thought of Emily, his mother, coming back to him, to take him in her arms like she used to do when soothing his nightmares away and reassure him that everything was going to be alright.

His lips turned a bright smile, and that's what spurred Tessa on. She walked faster, trying to will her legs to run but seemingly unable to do so. And Richie, seeing her hurry towards him, felt a sense of peace that he hadn't felt since his mother used to hold him at night to make sure that none of the monsters could get him this time, and for the first time in many years, Richie clearly pictured Emily's face, as she whispered soothing things to him and kept the monsters at bay… while the barge rocked slowly beneath them as the glittering lights of Paris filtered in through the portholes, allowing for the frightening dark to never hold sway.

Richie saw, Richie felt, Richie remembered. Two images merged into one, two memories half forgotten, buried in his subconscious. Two thoughts, two women, reconciled into each other. The vale was lifted and all became clear to those fever-bright eyes as the young boy they belonged to breathed a sigh of relief. His mother was here at last!

Tessa was almost upon him, having traversed the entire length of the cemetery to get to the corner where Richie sat with Emily. She moved even faster when Richie appeared happy to see her. She stopped short when her mind finally registered Richie's appearance: the teen was thin, even for him, and pale, except for the fever flushing his cheeks, and his eyes were bright with hope and fever. And his clothes were covered in Duncan's blood.

Some of the light left Richie's eyes as he studied her, standing mere feet away from him but not approaching further. Why had she stopped? Why was she not going to him? _Was that judgment in her eyes?_

"Maman?" He questioned, softly and unsure, before falling gently forward to rest beside Emily Ryan's grave.

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AN- that review: "I think that's the last I'll read of this one. It was already testing my patience (I'm usually very patient, but big battles and angst over nothing are irritating) and now this? You've got the characters very wrong if you think Richie would obsess over issues like this, much less ever kill Duncan unless Duncan came after him. And you're seriously wrong if you think Duncan would take that, Immortal or no. He couldn't have someone around that would do that to him or Tessa, much less an Immortal or potential immortal." 

If I understand the reviewer correctly, they believe that I am taking the characters way OOC by having Richie "obsess" over issues like who his family is, and what has happened concerning his concept of family since moving into the loft, going to Paris, and subsequently returning to Seacouver. Also, my having Richie kill Duncan so that he could escape the situation appeared OOC to the reviewer, as did Duncan's "allowing" it to happen (personally I don't think Duncan had any choice in the matter, but anyway...).

Does anyone agree with this reviewer who hasn't spoken up yet? If so, please do so now. And if anyone wants to come charging to my defense in this matter, I certainly won't stop you;)


	9. Finding

AN-Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I am truly touched that so many of you responded to my, er, troll for reviews. I have written responses to them at the end of this chapter. And additional thanks to SC for being my sounding board:)

AN2-Dialoge that takes place in the past is italicized and indented.

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Duncan stood outside the glass, peering into the darkened room where once again only a few electronic gizmos were what were standing between Richie Ryan and his latent immortality. That is, of course, if serious illness constitutes a trigger for immortality. Duncan honestly didn't know the answer to that one, but his suspicions were leading him to believe that if Richie were to succumb, then he would never wake from it. He would be dead, permanently, and the game couldn't do anything to stop it.

Tessa was inside the ICU with him now, babbling on about something or other, slipping between French and English, praying that it will be the sound of her voice that brings him back to the light.

Neither of them wanted to face the fact that the steady, constant beeping machine could change its tune, taking Richie out of their lives forever. Or, perhaps even worse, that if that machine remains constant, that Richie may never wake again. That was the fault of the seizures, which was the fault of the high fevers that seemed to come and go with Richie for over a week now, which was the fault of the illness he was fighting now, which was the fault of those crates Duncan had had shipped in from Ontario, and the germs they carried with them.

Duncan remembered what the doctor had told them three days ago, after he had returned to the loft after an unfruitful search for the teen, when he discovered Tessa gone, a note saying where she'd be, and a frantic answering machine message left not long afterwards that made him drop all previous thoughts and drive like a bat out of hell to the hospital.

Upon arrival, Duncan simply barged passed the reception desk, dragging the poor security guards who tired to detain him along for the ride. He made it into the main emergency ward before stopping in his tracks, thus allowing the guards to finally subdue him. Vaguely he remembered one of them taking his legs out from underneath him, because it was from his knees that he witnessed the horrific show before him.

Richie was in the throws of a seizure, thrashing about and bucking off the gurney. The doctors were simultaneously trying to lower his body temperature and restrain his erratic body to prevent him from doing more harm to himself and to them. Duncan watched from his knees as the guards stood over him, also transfixed by the sight, as Richie flat-lined and the cart was brought forward.

The pre-immortal buzz had abruptly stopped.

Three attempts and they managed to restart Richie's heart, and thankfully the pre-immortal buzz had returned with it. Then Richie lay quiet on the gurney as they draped a cooling blanket over him and pumped him full of drugs from one needle and took specimens with another before wheeling him out of the ER and out of sight.

All the while, Duncan from his knees had watched Tessa watch these proceedings. She stood, remarkably stoic, as Richie died only to be brought back. From where he was, Duncan saw her face in profile. Tears had made tracks down her cheek, but her eyes were dry now, all emotion seemingly spent. Only when Richie was out of sight did she acknowledge Duncan's presence. The security guards had seen that look on women's faces often enough that they released their grip on MacLeod's shoulders and backed away, though not departing entirely. Even still, Duncan somehow didn't have it in him to stand as she made her way over to him. He was still reclined on his knees as though someone had just kicked the life out of him.

_ "He's done that three times now,"_ Tessa had said, her voice bereft of emotion. Duncan just stared at her like she'd spoken a language that he didn't know.

_ "Are you the parents?"_ came a soft, tired voice from behind her, and Tessa turned from her lover to address the doctor. It was his presence that finally motivated Duncan to stand.

_ "Yes,"_ Duncan had answered immediately without thinking. Tessa didn't correct nor acknowledge him.

Then the doctor told them both what had happened. About how Richie was brought in with a fever so high that others have died from it. About how those fevers had shut down his kidneys and caused his brain to swell, which brought about the seizures, and the three brushes with death. He said that from what Tessa had told the EMTs on the ambulance ride, they had a pretty good idea of what Richie was suffering from, but they had to run some tests first so if the concerned parents would kindly find one of the private waiting rooms and they'll be informed as soon as the hospital staff knows more…

An eternity later the doctor was back to see them. He told them that Richie was a very sick boy (not that they didn't know that already) and that he was very lucky to be alive. He told them that Richie had stabilized, but was still running a dangerously high fever, and thus he was still on a seizure watch. Another seizure could kill him, and there was no way to tell how much (if any) brain damage the three previous ones had caused until he wakes up. Of course, that was going on the assumption that he _will_ wake up, but you understand that there are no certainties, don't you, Mr. and Mrs. MacLeod…

Richie has a disease called 'relapsing fever', though Duncan had heard of it under a different name. It was the 'famine fever,' where patients would get very sick, only to go into remission, only to have the fever return again. In hindsight, that explained to Duncan Richie's wildly shifting mood, which seemed dependent upon exactly how high his fever had spiked. It also explained Richie's earlier chills, his head and body aches, breathing difficulties (brought on by the tachycardia), and erratic behavior (brought on by the delirium of the fever).

Duncan nearly laughed at that. If only it were that easy, blaming everything on Richie's delirium!

There was nothing to do now but keep Richie alive and stable as his body goes through fever spike after fever spike until eventually he develops an immunity to the organism invading his system.

That was three days ago. Richie's fever spiked twice a day since then, and he's undergone one more seizure. Now, on the third day afterwards, Richie still hasn't shown any signs of waking, and his fever, though less than it has been, is still persistent. And Duncan could only watch through the glass while Tessa visited with the teen, only leaving his side when the nurses threatened to call security, because in his delirium, he had called her 'mamen', French for mother, but had killed the highlander, making his opinions painfully clear.

Duncan stood and watched, practically aching to be of some use in this situation, but resigning himself to the fact that he was not. Richie was hovering somewhere between life, death, and vegetative. Richie saw a mother in Tessa, and a threat in Duncan. Richie may never become immortal.

And all because of the ticks that had stowed away in the crates from Ontario, that had attached to Richie without his knowledge, and transmitted this dreadful disease that couldn't decide how much damage it wanted to cause before it was through. Duncan has already burned everything contained within those crates. Fifty thousand dollars up in smoke. But they were tainted, and now Richie was paying the price, all because they were trying to get the store ready to open.

Just then a nurse came by, giving Duncan a curt nod before heading inside to fiddle with Richie's gadgets and give him more medication. She and Tessa exchanged a terse glance before Tessa rose for her chair, bade farewell to Richie, and rejoined her lover in the hallway.

"Nothing," Tessa sadly answered the unspoken question. Duncan nodded.

"You look tired," he said. In truth, neither of them has gotten much in the way of sleep recently.

"So do you," Tessa answered softly. "I suppose we should go. They won't want us hanging around much longer today anyway." Duncan nodded again. "We'll come back tomorrow," Tessa reassured, and once again, Duncan only nodded. Her lover had been uncharacteristically quiet ever since he had arrived at the hospital three days ago. "Come on," said Tessa gently, taking her lover by the arm. Slowly she lead him out of the ICU, out of the hospital, to where the T-bird was waiting. Duncan automatically climbed in on the driver's side before he remembered that Tessa had driven that morning, and that the keys were in her purse.

"I can drive," he said with tired annoyance as his open hand for the keys was met with a questioning stare. Tessa finally acquiesced and handed him the keys, too tired to argue the point, and therefore really too tired to drive. Neither of them spoke again until they were back at the loft.

"I can't take much more of this," said Tessa, suddenly taking her frustrations out on her pillow as she fluffed it for the night.

"It's not up to us," Duncan answered with resignation. "Richie's fever has been decreasing steadily. He'll wake up when he's ready."

"And if his fever goes away completely and he still doesn't wake up?" Tessa asked, her voice sounding strangely devoid of emotion.

Duncan sighed. In truth, he had already thought much about the answer to that question. When Richie wakes, if indeed he wakes, he could be Richie again, or he could be… what is left over after the seizures have irreparably damaged his brain. The seemingly simple solution to this problem was simply to kill Richie—to let him die by violent means. That would trigger his latent immortality for sure, and if Richie was bound to wake, then indeed he would awaken upon reviving. Of course, Duncan would have to find a way of getting away with murder in a hospital in such a way that nothing the doctors could try would revive the teen before the immortality could take hold. The improbability of that happening alone was enough to discourage the thought.

However, if given serious consideration, Duncan would have dismissed the thought anyway. Richie could revive as an immortal and not awaken, if he is destined to spend the rest of his life in an irrecoverable coma. It is too cruel a thing to resign the lad to an eternity in a vegetative state. Duncan would be forced to take his head in that instance, and the highlander fervently believed that he could never withstand the emotional consequences of such an action.

Also, if Richie did in fact wake up immortal, there's still no guarantee that he'd be the same old Richie. The potential brain damage might not be enough to keep him in the coma forever, but it may (and mostly likely) is enough to change his personality in any number of ways. As much as having to take a permanently vegetative Richie's head would pain Duncan, having an immortal Richie who wasn't Richie alive and most likely completely dependant on another immortal for survival would almost be worse. Duncan would have to sequester the lad on holy ground somewhere and pray for the best.

Indeed, the prospect of visiting an immortal Richie who was not Richie in such an institution year after year was definitely the most heartbreaking outcome of all.

And how would he explain it all to Tessa?

No, Duncan would not do anything to interfere with Richie's natural progression towards the game. If Richie were to die now, it would be without any (additional) help from the highlander. All Duncan could do, all that he would allow himself to do, is sit back, watch, and pray.

"When Richie came to live with us," Duncan spoke at last, "we agreed that we would take care of him. And we will take care of him, no matter what." Tessa nodded swiftly, and tears shone in her eyes. Duncan drew her into a fierce embrace, and she spent what was left of her energy crying on his shoulder.

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Nothing changed in the next two days. Duncan and Tessa would drive to the hospital, Tessa would visit with Richie whenever visitors were allowed in the ICU, and Duncan would stand outside the glass walls and observe them. Tessa would speak a bizarre mixture of French and English to the teen, who would remain as unresponsive as ever, and Duncan would use the free time to let his mind wander over all the new ways he could possibly feel guilty over this situation.

First there was the guilt for putting his own needs ahead of those of his family's. For not bothering to ask Tessa and Richie if they even wanted to go back to the states, or even if they wanted to remain in the states after the business with Horton was concluded. No, it was just assumed that they would move back into the loft and reopen the antique store, mostly because he was the one that assumed it.

Then of course there was the guilt that maybe he hadn't tried hard enough to get Richie to open up about what he was really feeling. After all, the teen just blindly followed wherever he and Tessa lead, always putting their happiness above his own and not caring about the details so long as they didn't kick him out or renounce all they had said, or rather implied, about the concept of family. Richie was always very selfless about things like that, and Duncan had taken for granted that Richie wouldn't have a problem with the move. Duncan felt guilty about taking Richie's easy-going nature (or rather, fear of rocking the boat) for granted, and he felt guilty for not seeing that Richie was upset until it was too late, and for not trying hard enough to get the teen to open up… or perhaps for trying to hard and pushing him away. Either way, the guilt was the same.

There was also the guilt surrounding not taking Richie's illness seriously, for letting his belief that trying to baby Richie would only serve to push him further away, and for not recognizing the signs of an illness that has claimed his friends and loved ones in the past. Of course, he also felt guilty that it was the act of unpacking items for the store that brought Richie into contact with the illness (when Richie didn't even want to be back here in the first place), guilt for the fact that Richie was the one bitten and not himself (they had handled those crates and items equally), guilt for not spotting the parasites sooner (really, he should have checked…).

Finally, there was the guilt surround his anger at Richie for attacking him… if really you could call it anger. The act caught Duncan completely off his guard… and he was off guard because he trusted Richie implicitly, trusted him with his life. And Richie had betrayed that trust with a single act… though really, it must have been the delirium caused by the fever, but it still didn't sting any less. Betrayal was always the hardest part of dying.

However, Richie must have known that he couldn't have killed Duncan by stabbing him. Why did he do it then? Duncan desperately wanted to know. He _needed_ to know. What had he done to so offend the teen (aside from what Richie had revealed to him in the moments before the killing)? Did Richie really hate him so much that he would so easily take advantage of his trust in such a way? Was the act itself a pointed statement about the state of affairs for their friendship? It must be so, otherwise Richie wouldn't have been so cold, so… deliberate, when he committed the act.

And what of his openly addressing Tessa in the French for 'mother'? He had never spoken thusly before, except when he was half asleep in Paris and not aware of what he was saying. Of course, he was delirious, and sitting beside Emily Ryan's grave at the time. But surely he had recognizes Tessa?

Everything was painfully clear to the highlander, as he watched Tessa feign a laugh at some joke in her one-sided conversation to the comatose Richie. He had accepted Tessa as the mother figure he hasn't known since Emily's death, but Duncan knew that his own selfishness in his dealings with the teen up to this point, from Darius's death until now, has sealed his fate as another in the long list of forgettable foster fathers. Of this fact Duncan was certain, as much as it pained him. It was his own fault of course, for he was the first to betray trust: Richie's trust that the highlander would look out for his health, happiness, and wellbeing. All three points Duncan has failed in, and he only has his guilt to keep him company as he watched from the window the machines keeping Richie alive, never daring to set foot across the threshold into the room.

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"You've been awfully quiet lately," said Tessa. She and Duncan were eating lunch in the hospital cafeteria after being kicked out of Richie's room again. For his answer, Duncan just shrugged. "I know you've been thinking about Richie," Tessa continued, "so you might as well share what it is." Of course, Duncan would never tell her the nature of his current thoughts, not in a million years.

"I'm just worried about him," he offered instead. Tessa nodded sympathetically.

"That's plain, Duncan," she said. "But I'd like to think I know you well enough to gauge when you are keeping things from me." Duncan laughed suddenly at that statement, and Tessa bit her lip and the unintended cruelty of that act. "Duncan, talk to me," she directed once she had regained the brief slip of her composure.

"And what would we talk about?" Duncan asked, his voice dejected. He already knew the answer.

"How about why you haven't been in to see Richie since you arrived here?" Tessa offered. Duncan sighed and dropped his head, breaking eye contact. "I don't understand," Tessa continued. "You're usually the one trying to monopolize the chair by Richie's bedside." Duncan offered a ghost of a smile at unwelcome memories. "Duncan?"

"Do you know what the last thing he said to me was?" Duncan asked, still fighting with his inherent disbelief of the entire situation. Tessa shook her head.

"He said that his 'family' taught him how to get bloodstains out of carpet." Tessa was unsure how to react to that statement, so she followed it up with another question.

"That's not all he said, is it," she asked, though the question was rhetorical. Duncan shook his head.

"He hates me, Tess," Duncan finally confessed, the words sounding strange to his own ears. This time Tessa shook her head.

"He doesn't hate you Duncan," she corrected softly but firmly.

"Doesn't he?" Duncan countered. "I followed Horton back here, and you followed me, and Richie just… tagged along for the ride. He didn't want to leave."

"Duncan, Richie would follow us to Hell and back if we asked him to, without a second thought," said Tessa. "He would not hate you for that so long as he was invited." The bitter truth in Tessa's words gave the highlander sudden pause.

"It was selfish of me to come back here," he said at length. "And I didn't even ask you—or him for that matter, if you wanted to." Tessa shook her head, banishing hurtful memories. _We're either together, or we're not_.

"And you think that's how Richie sees it?" She asked. Duncan nodded slightly.

"He said so," Duncan revealed quietly, his face downcast so that Tessa couldn't see his eyes.

"Duncan, need I remind you that Richie was delirious with fever at the time?" Tessa asked, forcing the incredulous tone to her voice to deal with this newfound predicament. Duncan laughed, or rather, scoffed.

"He trusted me to do what's best for him, and all I did was do what's best for myself," Duncan concluded with an unhealthy amount of self-loathing. "I betrayed his trust." This time Tessa was the one to break the eye contact. She couldn't wholly refute Duncan's conclusions, and that's what frightened her.

"Just as he betrayed yours?" She offered quietly, once again giving Duncan sudden pause.

"He killed me," was all Duncan managed to say. He couldn't tell her about the anger he'd felt upon awakening, or the hurt. He couldn't tell her about how confused he was by Richie's statements in the moments before he was slain. He couldn't tell her that he felt the one more deserving of outrage at what had transpired, for hadn't he always kept Richie safe, happy, and a part of their family? Wasn't it Richie who was being the selfish ingrate? No, he couldn't confess these thoughts to Tessa, because he ceased believing them himself, as soon as he saw Richie flat-line on the ER table and was suddenly faced with the prospect of losing him forever.

Richie nearly died, and indeed still might, or worse, because Duncan hadn't noticed the severity of the illness, because he had chalked it up to exhaustion and malnourishment, because he thought that Richie was just going through one of his normal teenage attitudes. And the rift that has grown between them, that was the cause of the breakdown in communications, which gave rise to those assumptions… was solely Duncan's fault, or so he believed. Because he threw any and all thoughts concerning his family onto the back burner in his haste, and bloodlust, to conclude matter of Darius's death.

And Duncan also sensed now, what he had been blinded to back then: Darius didn't want vengeance. The dead want nothing, the dead feel nothing, and nothing done in the living world will change any of that. Avenging Darius, killing Horton, while also a great service to immortals everywhere, was an entirely selfish act, committed by Duncan MacLeod, for the sake of Duncan MacLeod. And now Richie was paying the price. Richie, who Duncan had sensed, had known all along how Darius would have felt about the entire sordid affair.

"He killed me," Duncan reiterated, and I deserved it." Tessa's heart went out to her lover, but only briefly, before her anger took control.

"So you think you deserved to die?" She asked, her tone dismissive. Duncan looked up to her then, and saw the fire in her eyes. "Then do you think that he deserves to be ignored by you?"

"I'm not ignoring him," Duncan defended weakly. "I've been here every day, same as you."

"Yet you refuse to see him, to talk to him…" Tessa's voice trailed off as her anger was washed away by grief. "The doctors said that talking to him would help, and yet you refuse to."

"You're talking to him," he offered, but Tessa shook her head.

"How can he ever forgive you if you turn your back on him now?"

"How can he ever forgive me if the person he least wants to see is the one he wakes up to?" Tessa shook her head, unable to staunch the misplaced anger she was feeling.

"Let me put it to you this way, Duncan MacLeod," she said, and her tone told Duncan that he'd better listen closely. "If you abandon that boy now, when he needs you the most, because you can't get over that stubborn highland guilt complex of yours, you should be more worried over if _I_ shall ever forgive you." With that the Frenchwoman stood and stalked away from the table and out of the cafeteria.

Duncan remained in the cafeteria a while longer to gather his thoughts. He just could not fathom how, after all that was said and done, Richie would want to wake up in his presence, when he still thought of Tessa as his mother figure. Surely she would be the more welcomed sight? But Tessa herself did not see it that way, and now she had delivered an ultimatum, which was quite unlike her and only served to prove how worried about Richie she truly was.

With a resigned sigh, Duncan realized that he couldn't stay lost in his morbid thoughts in the hospital cafeteria indefinitely, and so he stood, disposed of his lunch tray, and made his way back towards the ICU.

Much to his amazement, he discovered that Tessa wasn't there. In fact, he saw no traces of her. He momentarily debated what to do, but in the end he really could not allow Richie to go untended to. Someone really _should_ be there for him at all times, though up to this point that person had been Tessa. With another resigned sigh, Duncan reclaimed the too-familiar post in the chair beside Richie's hospital bed, wondering to himself whether or not Tessa's prominent absence was deliberate.

"How many times have we done this now?" Duncan asked a comatose Richie, finding need to break the silence that only his guilt named uncomfortable. "Too many," he answered on a sigh. "In fact, I think you've had this room before." The silence stretched out as Duncan tried to decide how best to break it again, this one-sided conversation so much more appealing than the heavy silence punctuated by beeping and whirring machines.

"The doctors say that, if you're going to wake up, you'll be about that real soon," he continued. "I hope so," Duncan added. "It's not like you to be so silent for long." Once again the highlander's statements met with no reply. It amazed him how this time around, he felt the need to fill the silent moments, when before he had been perfectly contented to just sit with Richie and await his eventual awakening. Perhaps it was because this time around the doctors used the words 'will _probably_ awaken.'

"Ach, laddie, what the Hell has happened here?" Duncan asked at last, the tumult of emotions eliciting his native Gaelic without his even realizing it. "Don't you know you're not supposed to die yet? You have centuries left to live! You're destined to enter the game, not… not waste away like this." Duncan put his head in one hand, sighing sadly to himself and fighting tears at the infuriating silence.

"You know, Tessa will never forgive either of us if you don't wake up," he said at length, still in Gaelic, for even now he was unaware of his transition. "Though, when you do wake up, she's going to baby you like never before, so I can understand why you're hesitant to come back to us." Duncan's voice nearly broke at the last, and only some remnant of highland willpower allowed him to keep it together.

"You can hate me all you want," he said at last, forcing his emotions back. "So long as you do it while you're awake." Duncan squinted his eyes into his fingers, pushing back tears. He refused to believe that it could end like this. It seemed so hollow, so… anticlimactic, for everything they have endured this past year. Only when Duncan forced his more depressed emotions back into the recesses of his mind, deciding for the moment to stick with stubborn highland pride that would NOT let it end like this, did he finally return his gaze to Richie.

He was shocked to discover two bright blue eyes now opened and regarding him intently.

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Medical source: The Merck Manual online

Reviewer Responses:

**Lily:** Thanks for the encouragement!

**Mz****. Lizzy:** I agree with you completely. Unfortunately, the show never really delved into Richie's emotions, unless the point was to put him at odds with Duncan, in which case it was always Duncan who appeared justified, never Richie.

**Yellowvalley****:** Indeed, character development was often sacrificed in the name of action in this series, unless of course it was another in-depth character study of the many levels of Duncan's ability to brood. And as you learn in this chapter, Richie is indeed VERY sick.

**Kat:** Thanks for the support! I also agree that Richie's seeming indifference towards his past is all bravado, and really there _are_ emotions lurking below the surface, which makes Richie so wonderful to write. There is so much to explore with his character, and admittedly, so many different directions an author can take, which are only proven valid according to the character development skills of the author.

**Richiefic****:** Indeed you are correct. Richie wasn't looking to kill Duncan permanently. He simply used Duncan's immortality against him as a means of escaping the situation. And the only reason it happened was because Mac trusted him with his life. Granted it was rather sloppy of him (Richie fondling a dagger when not in his right mind), but Duncan never was quick to detect falseness or betrayal from those around him, especially from those he cares about and/or trusts. I also personally feel that any personal reflection on Richie's part is more than he was ever granted in the show, so OOC could happen if strong evidence isn't used to defend how you perceive Richie's thoughts and emotions.

**SC:** Yeah I did get rather repetitive. It's one of the things I dislike about this chapter, and really, about this story. I was going for a layered effect, where each time the emotions are explored, a little more is revealed, and then a little more, so that by the end, we have a clear picture, based on the introspection and on the actual action of the story. I now believe that my execution of this writing tactic was a little remiss, and I apologize here to my readers for this fact.

**Lamarquise****:** Wow you wrote a book, hence why I saved yours for last (no slight intended here by that fact). Ok, where to begin.

First, you said before that you were probably going to stop reading this fic because I had tried your patience a bit too much than is forgivable, yet by this review, I see that for some reason you decided to read another chapter, and so I thank you for not abandoning me completely. Indeed, these new comments are much more elaborate, and yes, much more constructive than your previous post. For clarification purposes, I have outlined what I perceive flames to be below, as well as the other two types of reviews.

Also, to your statement of 'prove me wrong if you can,' I feel that I must remind you that I am the author, and this is my story. I am in no way obligated to respond in any way to any of your statements. I don't have to prove you wrong if I don't wish to. The burden falls on you the reader to make the decision on whether or not you wish to pursue a fic. If you do not like what I (or anyone else) write(s), then that is your right, and thus your right to not read (and even to review/flame). However, I do not in any way have to answer to you if you do not like my fic (unless you are one of the moderators of this site coming here in disguise). I am only entertaining the thought now because going tet-a-tet with others familiar with the canon will help me to better my craft.

Now, to respond to your issues. I can understand your opinion of the fact that Richie doesn't dwell on things. That is because we never SEE him dwell on things. Recall, if you will, the episode Prodigal Son, when Richie tells Duncan that he wasn't sure that he'd be welcomed at the barge after their parting the last time. Personally, I feel that he reached that conclusion after giving the entire scenariomore than just a passing thought. The same can be said, too, for the ep End of Innocence. Richie's feelings in that episode, especially towards his teacher/student relationship with Mac, surely can't have just been decided on without some sort of in-depth thought on the matter.

I can also understand your opinions about how Richie deals with loss. However, if you recall, he was bound and determined to get to the bottom of Gary's 'mysterious' death, and to bring those responsible to justice. Also, we saw that he had a very strong interest in what happened to Nikki and Melinda, and Maria his old foster sister, and even Angie. While I can see your point about his fatalistic view of things that happen these people, I personally believe that this is merely a defense mechanism designed to prevent himself from getting hurt. If he didn't care about loss, would he have pursued Tessa's murderer the way he did? I believe that you are only seeing the surface of things, as presented to us in canon, and not realizing that these people have lives off screen, that we aren't privy too. Richie has to deal with loss the same as any other human being. Just because we don't see his emotional ups and downs doesn't mean that he doesn't have them.

I agree with you about Richie's constant worrying over family. However, I fail to believe that he never questioned their motives. Richie has known the street life, as you have said. All his life he has been the only one looking out for him, as he is bounced from foster home to foster home ("everyone, this is your new foster brother Richie. Treat him just like one of the family—NOT!") I personally feel that he would question _everyone_'s motives, because he has no basis to assume that anything done to/for/about him was entirely for his own benefit. These are issues I explored in my fic _Into the Fold_, where basically I established the precedent for this universe of mine that Richie constantly tries to find hidden agendas as falsity with the people he comes into contact with. After all, being a product of the system, I fervently believe that he's been taken for rides more times than he would like to recall, and it is in his own best interests to be suspicious of everyone, even Mac and Tessa, though eventually he tries to lessen the knee-jerk reaction with them.

While there is no reason to suspect that he went back to Seacouver against his wishes, there is also no reason to believe that he wanted to go, either. The writers never dealt with the issue, so it is left up to speculation. I personally chose the route of him not wanting to leave Paris, because of the closeness of family that he found there (based on precedents that I established in my story _Flight_). While I agree that if Duncan gave him his blessings he could have easily decided to stay in Paris, didn't you just say that, "his main angst is over whether it's family at all and when his luck will run out"? It sounds like you are contradicting yourself here. Why would he choose to break up the family he cares so much about by remaining in Paris when Mac and Tessa are leaving? Wouldn't that be almost choosing to end the luck right there, as opposed to waiting for it to run out?

As for his killing Duncan, I explained above that it was an escape tactic, nothing more. There was no malice meant in it beyond his desire to get as far away from the highlander as possible. Had Richie been thinking clearly, maybe he would have talked his way out of it (and I agree that that is always his first choice), but I spent most of the fic establishing how he _wasn't able_ to think clearly, and the problems it was causing him. Therefore, I had Richie see an option, and then take it, meaning only to escape, because he saw no other way. After all, he basically just ripped Duncan a new one, revealing thoughts and emotions that otherwise wouldn't have seen the light of day. Wanting to escape from that situation seems perfectly justified to me.

I also agree with you about how Duncan reacts to his trust being betrayed. However, I believe that he never truly trusted Felicia (Tessa said as much to Richie in the ep). And with Kenny, he _did_ take him back into his home, at the insistence of Amanda. Also, Benny Carbasa was responsible for killing Mac in Vendetta, and he seemed to forgive him for that well enough by the end (at least, their relationship didn't appear to change much). And how many times has Amanda gotten him into trouble (flashback for Lady and the Tiger, for example). Also, Methos killed him in Forgive Us Our Trespasses, but that didn't seem to phase him by the next episode. Even in the episode Chivalry, when Methos turned Duncan's own sword against him to prove a point, it didn't really cause any serious injury to their friendship. Sure it won't be an easy thing to get over, but I don't believe that the damage done will be irreparable. Of course, that's because it's _my_ fic and I can believe what I will about it.

There, that should answer the issues your review raised. Whether or not they 'prove you wrong' is another matter, and really I'm not intending to do so. I merely attempt to provide counterexamples to your theories, which I believe I have done. Thanks again for your continued interest in this story, and I look forward to our next encounter.

**To everyone:** just to clarify: I personally believe that there are three types of reviews- First there is the most beneficial, the _constructive_ review. Whether saying good or bad things about a fic, these reviews actually contain statements that back up opinions, so that the author can really pause to examine the validity of what the reviewer has said. It's through this examination process that an author eventually learns how to better their craft, and it is why I have begun asking for such reviews at the end of all my fics.

Second, there is the non-constructive, flagrant ego gratification. It's the "I like your fic" review that doesn't state any reasons why. While these make me feel good about myself, they really don't help me to improve my writing.

Third, there is the flame, which is the opposite of the ego gratification review. It basically says "I don't like your fic" without providing any basis to back up their opinion unless it's with more opinion. It has all the validity of saying "I don't like roses because I don't like the smell." That's a review, which is an opinion, backed up by _another_ opinion. I generally disregard these reviews as a rule, or rather as a principle, because up to now I have only received one of them.


	10. Trying

AN-Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers!  Only one chapter to go!!!

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Finally it seemed as though the void was lifting.  The giant, trapping blackness was slowly phasing into a less trapping wash of light, and the dead weight that had been his body (or so he perceived) was once again registering itself as present and accounted for, piece by piece. 

Sounds were returning, though as of yet they weren't anything recognizable.  Just a cacophony of impossible to decipher noise.  Then finally, those sounds began to separate, much as the shadows that had formed in the void that was his vision.  Richie could isolate a voice, speaking in nonsensical syllables on his left.  On his right there was a constant steady beeping, and a strange hiss-whir sound that came and went at intermittent intervals.         

Somehow, those sounds together formed some sort of answer, and on any other day, Richie's mind could have formulated what exactly it was.  However, today was not an ordinary day.  So instead of focusing on what those sounds were, Richie focused his attention elsewhere.  His limbs felt like jello, and both arms were paining him.  It frustrated him greatly that he couldn't see what was wrong with them, but all that he could see were fuzzy edges with random splashes of color. 

Then suddenly the nonsense stopped.  Something about the presence of that noise brought comfort, and Richie turned his head in the direction that the sound had come from.  Unfortunately all he saw was a big dark blur, but something inside him told him that it was important that he figure out what that blob was, and why it had stopped making noise.  Richie focused on the blob intently, attempting to will it into a proper shape. 

And Duncan then saw Richie regarding him intently, and was suddenly at a loss for words.  It was as though Richie saw him, but didn't see him—or worse, didn't recognize him. 

And then suddenly a whole bunch of sounds happened at once.   There were voices, two of them, and they sounded like they were arguing.  No, not arguing.  Speaking loudly, but not angrily.  Then another voice joined in, and Richie tried his best to isolate one of them, but they sounded far away and almost underwater.  He knew that they were speaking English, but he couldn't make out what they were saying.  _Was the gibberish like this?  How would I know, it was gibberish…_

Finally, one of the sounds made sense.  _Mac!_  Richie was elated for having recognized a voice finally.  And also, if Mac was near by, then obviously he was going to be all right.  Mac would take him out of here (wherever _here_ was), and fix whatever was wrong with the world so that he could see it straight again.  Unfortunately, Mac was still talking to the other voices.  Richie needed to get his attention.

That's when he noticed the ventilator. 

Richie thought he was opening his mouth to call for Duncan, but he discovered that his mouth was already opened… and that there were tubes going down his throat.  His first automatic response was to gag, and this act triggered another insurgence of noise.  The alarms went off and suddenly there was even more noise as even more voices joined the conversation that Richie couldn't decipher.  However, he was too busy paying attention to the fact that whatever was down his throat was suffocating him.  Richie panicked.  _He couldn't breathe!_

Frantically he tried to grab at what was covering his mouth and stealing his air, but that's when he discovered the restraints on his arms.  _They were holding him down!_  Richie would have screamed, had he the capacity.  He tried kicking out with his legs, but that too proved fruitless as they were restrained as well.  Then suddenly he was aware of pressure sensations on his arms and legs.  _Hands!  _By now the world was beginning to fade again as Richie's struggles against the ventilator were preventing him from getting the necessary oxygen.  _They were suffocating him!_ 

Richie frantically tried to locate Duncan's voice again, and at length he did.  Mac was shouting something.  That was a good thing.  _Mac was fighting… whoever they were_.  Richie's last thoughts before oblivion welcomed him again was that Mac would soon make everything right again.

"It was just a mild sedative," the doctor explained.  "It won't keep him under long."

"What happened?" Duncan asked for the umpteenth time.

"Richie was confused," said the doctor.  "He fought against the ventilator.  We couldn't calm him, so we had to sedate him or else he would have asphyxiated on the tube."  Duncan nodded, leaving a lingering glance on Richie's once again unconscious form.  The beeping and whirring of the machines had returned to normal. 

"But he woke up," said Duncan.  "That's a good thing."  The doctor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yes," he agreed tentatively. 

"But?"

"Look, Mr. MacLeod," said the doctor, trying to find the right words.  "For all we know, that fit could have been simple confusion.  It happens."

"But?" Duncan probed again, more insistently this time.

"But we don't know what state his mind is in.  He'll wake up again in a few hours, but we have no way of knowing how extensive the damage will be."  Duncan could just stare at the sleeping teen, the doctor's words resounding deafeningly loud in his ears.

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Richie didn't awaken before Duncan was forced out of the ICU again.  This time though, he didn't offer any protests, or even any whispered reassurances to the unconscious Richie, before he left.  Duncan MacLeod walked out with a nod to the attending nurse, and nothing more.  Tessa had taken Duncan's old post by the glass and moved to intercept him as he left.

"I didn't see you there," said Duncan absently as he nearly ran her over.

"Of course not," she said with a smirk.  "You were too busy focusing on Richie."  Duncan's eyes darkened even as he nodded.  "The doctors told me what happened," Tessa continued when it appeared that Duncan wasn't going to say anything.

"Where were you?" Duncan asked in return, his voice accusing.

"I figured that the only way you'd spend time with Richie was if I wasn't there," Tessa answered defiantly.  After all, she was right.

"You left him alone," Duncan challenged.

"I most certainly did not!" Tessa answered vehemently.  "You were right there.  And besides, he is alone more often than not in this infernal place, with their pointless rules-" Duncan held up his hands then to stem the argument.  He sighed in exasperation and defeat.

"I know," he retorted.  Then, softer: "I know."

"Why won't they let us stay?" Tessa asked, matching his quiet tone.  "How can it possibly help for him to be left alone all the time?"  Duncan blinked slowly, shaking his head.

"I don't know, love."

"I just keep thinking, that, if he were to wake up alone-"  Duncan silenced the rest of her sentence by taking her into his arms.  She burrowed herself into his embrace and cried her frustrations for a time while Duncan just held her, offering comfort as best he could. 

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Duncan and Tessa had to leave for the evening, as usual.  While they were gone, Richie awoke again.  Six days after admittance to the hospital, his doctors finally believed that his body had caught up with the parasite inside of him.  Immunity was developing, and his fever, while still fluctuating, was only high enough to be an annoyance, rather than a threat.  They were able to remove him of all tubes, save the IV, and give him a normal room instead of the ICU. 

This meant that the doctors were sure that, whatever damage had been done, it wasn't enough to reduce Richie to a vegetable.  However, nothing more could be said unless it was by Duncan or Tessa, for they were the best to judge if the Richie lying there now was the same one they had known.

Tessa sat in the chair by his bedside, holding his hand and speaking to him in French.  Duncan, from his spot by the window, paid her words no heed.  His back was to the scene, his gaze fixed on nothing on the other side of the glass.

To the untrained eye, Duncan MacLeod appeared to be lost in thought.  That was only partially true.  His gaze was muted because all of his other senses were on high alert, least of all the one tuned into Richie's pre-immortal buzz.  Though he was not as sensory-adept as other immortals had trained themselves to be, he could still hear the minute crinkling of the hard sheets as Richie squirmed slightly in bed, waking at last.  Tessa was oblivious to this, so focused we she on her narrative to preserve her own sanity while awaiting Richie's awakening that she failed to notice the event itself when it happened. 

Her only warning was Duncan's unreadable expression—one that seemed to contain both sheer joy and sheer terror, as he strode purposefully from the room.  Her question was cut off by a moan from the bed. 

"Richie?" She asked almost fearfully, forgetting Duncan for the moment.  Richie moaned again and shifted in the bed before blearily opening his eyes.  The first thing he saw when his vision came into focus was Tessa staring at him expectantly, almost fearfully, from the chair beside his bed.

"Tessa?"  The next thing he saw was a million-watt smile light across her face, as tears of joy escaped to trickle down her cheek.

"Oh, Richie!" Before he knew, he was hastily pulled up and enveloped in hug that threatened to crush the life from him.  Tessa, of course, was simply consumed by her relief.  _Richie__ had recognized her!_

"You're crying," Richie observed with a mixture of worry and curiosity when she finally pulled away.  Tessa smiled, a choked sob escaping even as she nodded and wiped her tears away.

"You have no idea how happy I am," she said at length.  "How relieved."

"I think I can guess," said Richie with an amused head shake.  That's when he noticed that he was back in the hospital again.  His memory of any previous awakenings had been stolen by drugs and fever.  He let out an exaggerated sigh as he collapsed back onto the bed.  "You always get like this whenever I wind up in the hospital."  Tessa laughed outright this time. 

Any further comments were cut off by the dramatic entrance of the doctor, who was followed closely by Duncan (thus explaining his earlier hasty retreat).  The doctor came in grinning, also relieved that his patient appeared to be alert and, well, himself.  Duncan stood like a shadow in the doorway, watching the proceedings with an impassive face.  Of course, Tessa could see right through it, though wisely she chose not to say anything at this time. 

The proceedings in question were a spot examination of Richie followed by the quick question and answer test, with the usual "where are you, who are you, what day is it" type of questions.  Richie passed with flying questions, Tessa giving confirming nods for simple facts like his home address and birthday. 

"Well, from here, there don't appear to be any drastic ill effects," the doctor observed.  Tessa smiled with relief, but Richie just nodded.  No one had told him yet of just how closely he really came to said 'ill effects'.   "I need to take him for a CT scan though, just for comparative sake."  Tessa nodded again, but this time Richie groaned.

"Oh, it's not that bad," Tessa admonished with a smirk.  She was so happy to have the old Richie back. 

"Yeah, I know.  I should get frequent CT scan miles or something," he said dejectedly as a nurse brought in a wheelchair for him.  Duncan tensed at the offhand comment, but said nothing. 

"We'll be right here when you get back," Tessa reassured as Richie was eased into the wheelchair.

"No you won't," the nurse said dispassionately.  "Visiting hours will be up before then."

"We'll be here when you get back," said Duncan, finally breaking his silence.  Fortunately, Richie interpreted the unbridled steel in the highlander's voice as being directed towards the hospital staff because even the doctor paused as he was making notations on the teen's chart.  Richie flashed the nurse a cocky grin, taking odd comfort in MacLeod's tone.  Tessa, however, paled slightly and wisely bit her tongue.  After the doctor departed and the nurse wheeled Richie away, Tessa could only stare at her lover with a shocked and confused expression.

"Duncan-"

"What?" He snapped, cutting her off quickly.  Tessa bit her lip and recoiled slightly.  Duncan sighed heavily.  "I'm sorry." 

"What has gotten into you lately?"  Duncan sighed again, softer this time, and made his way to the bed and sat down, bringing them to eye level.

"I'm glad Richie's ok," he said at last.

"You sound it," Tessa answered sarcastically.  Duncan opened his mouth to retort, but instead sighed for the third time.  For the life of him, he couldn't find the words to express what he was feeling.  He was worried for Richie, relieved for Richie, slightly put out by Tessa's easy rapport with the teen, and scared to death of the lingering effects of what has transpired between them on their relationship, such as it as.  And now Duncan no longer had the luxury of time. 

"I need to talk to him," he said at length, mostly to himself.  "Tessa nodded in agreement.  "I'm not sure I want to do that in the hospital."

"I can see where your talking about his stabbing you could lead to problems in a hospital," Tessa responded, her voice neutral.  Duncan raised an eyebrow and that's when her concentration broke and a slight laugh escaped her lips. 

"But I don't want him to think I'm avoiding him, either."

"Well, you can still talk to him Duncan," said Tessa.  "There's no law that says you must talk about _that_."  This time it was Duncan to laugh.

"And what are we supposed to talk about instead?  The weather?"

"Anything!" Tessa responded, feeling the entire inappropriateness of the humor but not caring in that moment.  "Just… not that."

"Oh, I can just picture it," Duncan continued sarcastically.  "Hi Richie.  There's this thing, you know.  That thing that were not talking about right now.  I promise we'll talk about it later, in private.  You understand of course.  So… how bout them Seahawks?"  By the end Tessa was laughing even harder than before.

"It's not right that I'm laughing," she observed. 

"So stop laughing," Duncan directed, the command undermined by his own smile.   

"Well shame on you for making me laugh," she countered, forcing seriousness to return.  To her surprise Duncan said nothing.

"When was the last time Richie laughed?" He asked at length.  "And I don't mean sarcastically."  The qualifier gave Tessa pause, and she realized that she couldn't answer her lover's question.

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Richie was wheeled back into the room after barely a half an hour.  Duncan and Tessa were waiting patiently for him and ignored the scowls of the nurse.  Visiting hours ended nearly twenty minutes ago. 

Tessa aided the nurse in easing Richie back into the bed (amidst protests that he could do it himself) while Duncan simply watched, his face once again impassive. 

"So did they tell you guys when I get to go home?" Richie asked hopefully as soon as the nurse had departed.  Duncan realized that they had only a few minutes left before security showed up to escort he and Tessa out of the hospital.

"I think that depends on the results of your CT scan," he observed, and Richie groaned.

"I really hate hospitals," he said sullenly.

"Gee," said Tessa.  "We hadn't noticed."  Richie gave her a slight mocking laugh. 

"Do you think they'll let me get something to eat?"  He asked next, once again hopefully.

"You're hungry?"  Tessa asked in surprise.  Duncan silently thanked God for that small fact. 

"Of course I'm hungry," Richie enthused.  "I missed dinner!"

"I'd say you've missed a fair share of dinners," Duncan observed dryly.  Tessa would have shot him a glare if only it wouldn't have raised difficult questions.

"So like I said, do you think they'll feed me?"  Richie reiterated. 

"They might," Tessa answered.  "If you ask nicely."

"Who, me?"  Richie asked, flashing his most winning smile and adopting his most innocent look.  Tessa just laughed at him as he batted his eyes for effect.  Then suddenly Richie sobered.  "How's my bike?"

"Your bike?"  Duncan questioned in return.

"Well, yeah," Richie answered, suddenly unsure.  "It's not banged up too badly, is it?"

"Why would it be?" Duncan asked. 

"Did you crash it?" Tessa chimed in immediately, suddenly fearful.  Richie's slightly lost expression met Tessa's anxious one, but in the background it was Duncan who was the most fearful.  Richie remained silent for many moments.

"If I crashed my bike and wound up in the hospital, you guys would know," he concluded logically, though his voice was unsure.  Duncan brought a hand to his eyes and collected his thoughts briefly.

"Richie, what's the last thing you remember?" He asked carefully.  The teen took time to seriously consider this question. 

"A grave," he answered definitively at last.  "At least, I think so."

"What about before that?" Tessa asked.  Once again Richie took his time.

"I was at Mrs. Burke's.  She told me about Angie, and Larry, and James n' Kyle."

"Then what?" Duncan prompted, barely keeping his anxiety from his voice.

"Then… nothing," Richie finished finally.  "A grave."  Duncan gripped the doorframe with one strong hand, feeling his knees practically give way at the weight of this new information.  However, before he was able to speak, Tessa beat him to it.

"You went to Emily Ryan's grave after seeing Mrs. Burke," she said definitively.  "Mrs. Burke called me and told me to look for you there because she was worried about how sick you were, and that's where I found you."  Duncan stared agape at Tessa, but neither she nor Richie noticed.

"Then how'd I get here?"  Richie asked.

"I had the groundskeeper call an ambulance," Tessa confessed, her self-assurance in her earlier fib erased by memory.

"Oh," said Richie demurely, staring down at his bedcovers.  "So I guess my bike's all right then?" 

"The bike's fine," Duncan answered, finally regaining his voice.  He was still so taken aback that his voice held that quality to it.  Tessa finally chanced a glance in his direction, her eyes feigning certainty outside of Richie's line of site.  That's when the security personnel appeared outside the door.


	11. Talking

AN- Yeah, I know I said that this would be the last chapter, but it was getting too long so I decided to break it up. I'll post the rest of it fairly soon, but now it's after 1 am and I'm beat. I would like to take the time to thank SouthernChickie, my only reviewer for the last chapter. I will say that I'm glad this fic is over, even though stirring up controversy was a lot of fun. Once I get around to proofreading and posting the final bit I will be taking a break from Richie stories to focus on some other areas of HL fiction (mainly Methos) and also to work in other fandoms, so if you're one of the many out there who prefer Richie stories I don't know when you'll hear from me again. It's been fun though.

AN2- There's a bit of French in this chapter that's a bit more involved than one or two word exclamations. I have written translations that follow each line in parentheses. I apologize if my translations are off, but it's been 2 years since I last studied French.

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"Why did you do that?" Duncan asked once he and Tessa had reached the safety of the parking lot.

"Do what?" She retorted, her tone clipped. She knew exactly what he was referring to.

"Why did you lie to him?" Duncan asked, his voice surprisingly sincere given his current mood.

"I didn't lie to him," Tessa answered. Her continuation cut off any protests. "His sortie to Emily's grave happened _after_ he left Mrs. Burke's apartment. She did call to tell me that she was worried about him, and she did say where I could find him."

"Yes," Duncan agreed hesitantly, "but you neglected to mention what happened between Mrs. Burke's house and his going to the cemetery, and you also failed to say that Mrs. Burke called _twice_ concerning Richie."

"But I didn't lie," Tessa responded resolutely, convincing herself that she was convinced.

"You've never heard of lies by omission?" Duncan asked incredulously. Tessa spun on her heels to address him directly.

"Don't you dare lecture to me about lies of omission, Duncan MacLeod!" She spat angrily. A tense moment hung between them while Duncan pondered his response.

"And what happens when Richie remembers what really happened?" He asked quietly at last. Tessa's eyes flashed briefly in anger before she violently shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. She turned and walked quickly away, cursing vehemently in French as she went. Duncan sped up his pace to walk in quick steps beside her.

"Tessa," he called, trying to get her attention. She shook her head again and continued her French tirade. By now they had reached the car and Tessa threw the driver's side door open with such force that Duncan thought she might have broken the handle. For lack of a better plan, he climbed into the car on the passenger's side. However, instead of fishing through her purse for her keys, as Duncan expected her to do,

Tessa just sat there, lips pursed and quietly fuming, staring intently at nothing on the dashboard.

"Tessa?" He tried again. Tessa screwed her eyes shut in response, her jaw clenching. "Tess?" Cautiously Duncan reached out for her, laying a hand tentatively on her shoulder. Despite Tessa's strong resolve, the tears finally escaped her eyes. Upon seeing this, Duncan threw caution to the wind and gathered his distraught lover into his arms. She cried angrily for a few moments, a groan of frustration escaping her at last only to be muffled by Duncan's sweater.

"_Il tombant tout en morceaux_" She said, despair evident in her voice. (_It's all falling apart_)

"_Que__?_" Duncan asked, slipping into French with her. (_What?_)

"_Nous__ sommes,_" she answered. "_Ma famille_." Duncan tensed even as he held her, but then forced himself to relax. (_We are… My family)._

"Tess..."

"First Darius dies, and now... now this!" Tessa lamented, finally pulling her face out of her lover's chest so that she could look him in the eye. "And it's all happening again," she continued. "Maybe it's best that this time he forgets!" Duncan was silent a moment as he pondered this, but the inevitable question begged to be asked.

"Best for whom?" Tessa pushed herself completely away from him, wiping her tears away with one hand as she sat up straight.

"And what good would the truth do?" She asked honestly. "He doesn't need the guilt." Duncan half-smiled, but even in her distressed state Tessa could see the bitterness in it.

"And if he doesn't feel guilty?" Tessa looked away, unable to maintain eye contact for she was unable to deny that such a fear also played upon her own mind. Her indecision lasted barely a moment however, and she then looked up to him with certainty.

"Then he doesn't need to remember it," she said definitively.

"And if he does anyway?" Tessa bit her lip but refused to turn away a second time.

"I will not lose this family, Duncan," she reassured with quiet steel. "We have come through too much together to be torn apart from the inside."

"He's not our son," said Duncan, his voice tinged with regret. Tessa didn't even flinch as she said,

"I don't care."

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Duncan and Tessa had deftly managed to avoid their new favorite topic for most of the evening. Tessa had disappeared into her workshop as soon as they arrived home from the hospital and didn't even bother to change her clothes before expending what was left of her anger on metal. Duncan, for his part, thought that she was deriving entirely too much enjoyment from the use of the blowtorch and kept a respectable distance.

Tessa wound up working well through dinner and on late into the night. Duncan also wasn't hungry and thought better of disturbing his lover with such a frivolous thought as food and so he didn't see her again until nearly midnight. Tessa had stopped working just after eleven, and upon realizing the time, decided to call it quits for the day. She truly was exhausted.

Tessa entered their bedroom to find it completely dark. Her extra-long shower had worked wonders for the tension in her aching muscles, but, anger and adrenaline spent, she wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed beside her lover and sleep the following day away.

"I was beginning to think you'd work through the night." Tessa mentally cursed. Of course Duncan would have waited up for her.

"I'm too tired for that," she answered, her tone of voice lending truth to her words. She didn't protest when Duncan snaked his arms about her and pulled her close. Her back was pressed firmly to his chest and the top of her head was caught gently beneath his chin. She could tell that this gesture was for his own comfort as well as hers. "You're worried, Duncan," she said, her tiredness also speaking of amusement. "I can tell."

"So are you," he retorted, but not harshly. Tessa allowed him this before speaking again.

"You're worried that he wouldn't regret killing you the way he did," Tessa probed after a moment. In her exhaustion, her tone bespoke of disappointment and

Duncan didn't answer. She continued, "You worry that he won't forgive you." Tessa felt Duncan tense behind her and smiled despite herself.

"Maybe I don't deserve his forgiveness," he said, self-loathing coloring his voice. Tessa squeezed the arm in front of her in comforting reassurance.

"Do not look for his forgiveness, Duncan, when you haven't done anything wrong." Duncan laughed behind her, but that too was full of self-loathing.

"Haven't I?" He asked rhetorically. "I took him half way round the world becuase I needed to avenge Darius. I never bothered to ask how he felt, or what his opinions were. I didn't even notice the severity of his illness! I just expected him to follow, just... happily trail along after me like a little-"

"Son?" Tessa interjected, and once again she felt Duncan tense behind her.

"I was going to say lost puppy," he said, defeated.

"I know." There was a moment of thick silence before Tessa continued. "Duncan, children either worship their parents, or battle against them. It's natural.

But always they know in their hearts that their parents are making the right decisions for them, even if they don't like them." Duncan let out a long-suffering sigh.

"But did I act in his best interests?" He asked. "Avenging Darius way my choice. It was my selfishness that brought us here."

"Duncan, how could you possibly know that coming back to the states would affect Richie so?" Duncan opened his mouth to answer her, and that's when sudden realization dawned. _Because I'm his father, it's my job to know!_

"Like you said, Duncan. We aren't his parents. We may love him as a son, and maybe that _is_ selfish on our part, to try and put him into shoes that don't really fit. But there are times when he's needed us to be his parents, too."

"Times like Paris," Duncan concluded. He felt Tessa nod beneath his chin.

"Most often in Paris," she agreed. Then a brief pause while she gathered her thoughts for her next point. "But Duncan, you also know that there were times when he didn't want us to act as parents, times when he claimed he didn't need us... like that."

"And we would let him pull away from us," Duncan added. "Because he's an adult and not our son."

"And we always knew that he'd come back when he needed parents again," Tessa finished. This time it was Duncan who took the long pause to gather his thoughts.

He took so long, in fact, that Tessa had thought the conversation over, and had nearly drifted off to sleep.

"We were always what he needed," he said softly, but right above her ear and thus her eyes snapped open again. Duncan felt her jump slightly and knew that he startled her, so he cuddled her closer to him in apology. "Now, he feels we—I, am not." Tessa squeezed his arm again.

"You needed him to be the loving, supportive son who would follow you anywhere when you took us back to Seacouver," said Tessa. "And he needed you to be the loving, supportive father who wouldn't make such decisions without asking him of his opinions." Duncan snorted a laugh.

"I needed a son, and he needed a father, and _still _we managed to get... here."

"So you see, Duncan, there is no blame here. Parents and teenagers fight. It's not your fault, nor his."

"Fault or no," said Duncan. "He still blames me." Tessa sighed audibly before speaking.

"And that's something we need to address," she said with quiet resolution. "I will not watch this family break apart." Duncan squeezed her close for a moment.

"Aye, love," he said, his voice thick with emotion. He was eternally grateful to have such a wonderful person in his life.

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Duncan awoke early and went for his morning run. He needed it to focus his thoughts. Somehow the world just makes more sense when he's punishing his body with physical activity. He realized that it was the same for Richie when he went riding and for Tessa when she buried herself in her art.

And thus Tessa awoke to an empty bed. She wasn't all that surprised, however. In fact, she was rather grateful. If she knew her lover at all, he would be gone for most of the morning. This left her plenty of time to hurry over to the hospital and have a clandestine chat with Richie. She couldn't have Duncan blaming himself for the teen's emotions and behaviors, and she couldn't have Richie blaming Duncan for the same. She needed to address his feeling with him and get him to finally be open and honest with her or else reconciliation would be impossible. Tessa flat-out refused to let her family be torn apart over such a trivial issue as location. Family was immutable!

Richie was awake when she arrived, staring at the snow-static on the television in frustration.

"Good morning," she greeted as cheerfully as she could. Richie turned suddenly and smiled when he saw her.

"Hey, Tessa! What brings you here this early? … By yourself?" Tessa forced the smile to remain as Richie shut off the television.

"Duncan was still off on his morning run when I woke up," she explained. "So I decided to take the morning off and come down here and visit with you." Richie grinned again as Tessa sat in the well-worn chair.

"Mac does like his runs," said Richie absently, wishing at that very moment to have the option himself. He really, _really_ hated being cooped up in hospitals.

"Yes," Tessa agreed almost absently. Already her mind was formulating ways of dealing with the situation at hand. Richie's smile slowly fell as he studied her face intently.

"Tess?" He questioned tentatively.

"Hum?" Tessa was suddenly startled out of her reverie, and her smile wasn't quite as convincing as it should have been.

"Ok Tess, what gives?" Richie asked point-blank.

"What do you mean?"

"You never come to visit me without Mac," Richie explained. "What happened? Did you two have a fight?" Tessa was touched by Richie's sincerity and thus strove not to laugh.

"No, Richie. We didn't have a fight." She answered truthfully.

"Then why are you so distracted?" Richie asked, his sincerity taking the edge of the accusation. Tessa sighed heavily. It was now or never.

"Richie, have you remembered anything else about what happened before?" She asked at last, her tone guarded. Richie's face fell and he shyly looked away. "Richie?"

"I remember that I was a big jerk to you guys," he said quietly to his blankets.

"And?" Tessa probed further. Richie bit the inside of his lip. He remembered the large chip he had on his shoulder, and some of the less favorable things he had done. Of course the doctors had assured him that it was because of the fevers, but that was no excuse. He'd been sick before, and he'd never behaved like _that_!

"And what?" He asked eventually, slightly defensive. Even if he was deserving of a reprimand, old habits were hard to break. "I mouthed off a lot and treated you guys like crap." Tessa sighed inaudibly in relief that he didn't seem to remember the knife incident.

"You were troubled," she answered naturally. Richie snorted and nodded slightly.

"That still didn't give me the right to say those things, or to storm off all the time," he returned. Tessa saw her chance.

"Why not?" Richie blinked and turned to face her once again.

"Because," was his natural stubborn teenager answer. Tessa wasn't about to let him get away with it though.

"Because why?"

"Because!" He repeated rather passionately. Tessa merely raised an eyebrow. Richie released a long-suffering sigh. He felt like he'd just walked right into that one. "I'm sorry," he said, and Tessa detected regret in his voice, as well as self-rebuke.

"Because why?" Tessa asked again, her tone soft and questioning. Richie sighed again.

"Because you guys are…" His voice trailed off as he suddenly didn't know which word to choose. "You guys," he finally repeated. "You're Mac and Tessa! I can't just go around treating you guys like… like… Well, I just can't." Richie looked away again, feeling uncomfortable in this discussion. He fixed his gaze out the window.

"Why can't you?" Tessa probed.

"Because I can't!" Richie snapped. He then all but groaned in frustration and ran his fingers through his hair. "I can't," he repeated. "It's not right."

"Why isn't it right?" Tessa continued. "You make it sound like Duncan and I are an exception to some rule." Richie laughed slightly.

"Because you are," he answered as though it was the most logical thought in the world.

"And what rule is that?" Richie shrugged and didn't answer. "Richie?"

"I have to treat you guys different because you _are_ different," he said at last.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you know?" Richie met her gaze and found it questioning, yet she would be the one to wait for him to speak more. Finally Richie sighed. "You remember when I first moved in? How I acted? The things I said?" Tessa smiled slightly and nodded. "I'm like that around everyone new," he elaborated, "but I think you knew that." Tessa nodded again. "But then… I dunno. You guys were different from everyone else. You weren't like the others." Tessa smiled again; it was only a ghost of one, but it was genuine.

"Like the other what?" Richie looked away again, trying to choose his words carefully.

"Like the others who took me in."

"Your other families?"

"Forster families!" Richie snapped, turning once again to face Tessa. It took all her strength not to recoil at the outburst. "You guys weren't like my other foster families," he said in clarification, consciously softening his tone. Tessa still eyed him expectantly, seemingly reassured. She was tired of the way things were usually resolved in this family, with Duncan making statements that everyone else would either yay or nay. She needed to hear Richie's thoughts from _Richie_, not just tell him what he was thinking or feeling. She waited patiently for Richie to speak again, but she was a lot more nervous for this conversation that she let on.

"Do you remember what we talked about when we flew to Paris?" Richie asked after a long and awkward silent moment. Tessa nodded. "That's what I mean. You guys were the best people who ever took me in, and I was too old then to be fostered by anyone. You weren't a foster family, you were…" Richie's voice trailed off, as even now he was afraid to say the words aloud, lest their utterance would shatter his world like pins to a balloon.

"A real family?" Tessa asked, going out on a limb. Richie looked away, embarrassed and ashamed, but he nodded dumbly to the statement. "Richie, look at me." Richie slowly but surely did as he was told. "Richie, I'm a French artist, Duncan is a four hundred year old Scottish antique dealer, and you're the boy who broke into our store. Nevertheless Richie, we three of us are family. Never doubt that, and never be ashamed of it." Richie closed his eyes and made to look away, but Tessa caught him under the chin, gently but firmly, and denied him the privilege. "_Oh_, _mon__ petit_, _quelles__ pensées des diables aviez-vous pensée?_" (_What thoughts of devils have you been thinking?_)

"_Mauvaises__ pensées,_" Richie admitted, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "_Je__ suis désol_." (_Bad thoughts… I'm sorry_)

"_Dite-moi__._" (_Tell me._) Richie nodded again and Tessa released his chin. Richie then sank back on the bed and attempted to put his thoughts in order.

"Paris was everything you said it would be," Richie said at last, smiling in memory. "Darius taught me to play chess, you and Mac taught me French. I can watch some of your movies now without subtitles!" Tessa smiled at his enthusiasm. "You took me to museums, showed me famous paintings. Do you remember when that professor dude started that argument with me about the glass pyramid at the Louvre?" Tessa smiled and nodded.

"I think he was surprised to find a teenager so knowledgeable."

"That's because you taught me all about art," Richie said proudly. "And Mac took me sightseeing, told me all about France and how it's changed. I argued so well because Mac taught me about the history of the Louvre itself, too." Richie sighed wistfully. "I learned so much over there."

"You always had an inquisitive mind," Tessa offered. Richie shrugged shyly.

"Don't you see?" he asked. "Paris was everything Seacouver isn't. In Paris I had you and Mac, but nobody knew that I was just the punk thief you guys took pity on." He silenced Tessa's comment with a raise of his hand. "It's true," he reiterated. "You guys were great when I first started working here, but you didn't have to be. I was a thief, and everybody knew it."

"That doesn't matter," Tessa stated firmly. "We know the _real_ you. The Richie Ryan that _I_ know is a thoughtful, diligent, charming young man."

"I know," said Richie. "And in Paris, that's all everyone else knew, too." Realization was beginning to dawn for Tessa, but her thoughts crystallized further as Richie continued. "When I got back to Seacouver, we all just picked up where we left off. You with your art, Mac with the antiques, and me picking fights and copping 'tudes."

"Richie—"

"It was like Paris never happened," he continued, cutting her off. "It was like Oz, and then I woke up, and everything was black and white again."

"Is Seacouver really that bad?" Tessa asked honestly. Richie laughed slightly, mocking.

"Seacouver is where I grew up," he said. "It's where I was in and out of foster homes, orphanages, and juvie. I have a record here. Most of my friends here are dead or in jail. The cops know my face."

"Richie, everything you just said is true, no matter where you are. You were the same Richie in Paris that you were in Seacouver." Richie sighed.

"I was better in Paris," he said weakly.

"Because you could pretend your past did not exist?" Richie looked sharply away again. Tessa once again cupped his chin and turned his head so that he was facing her. Richie's eyes still were downcast though. "Richie, _regardez-moi__ s'il vous plait_," she directed with quiet authority. (_look__ at me please_) "You cannot keep running from things, Richie. Not your past, and not your emotions." She held his eye contact purposefully and it was all the teen could do to not squirm. "You cannot change who you are simply by moving to a new place, take my word on that." Finally Richie managed to nod and Tessa released him.

"It's not me," he said finally, willing himself to not look down. "It's everyone else."

"Including us?" Richie winced an intake of air and this time succeeded in diverting his attention to anything but the woman in front of him. He picked at the IV in his arm.

"I didn't mean that," he said, but he still didn't look up.

"Then what did you mean?" Richie couldn't answer her. "Did you mean Darius?" Once again Richie remained silent. "The watchers?" Tessa could take the silence any longer, so she decided to be direct. "You're mad at Duncan for going after the watchers," she stated rather than asked. "Because that's what brought you back to Seacouver." Richie released another long-suffering sigh.

"Darius wouldn't have wanted vengeance," he said, his tone detached and sad. "He told me once, after that business with Xavier St. Cloud, that death meant peace, and healing for our souls or some such. And I don't think it was his monk's robes talking." Tessa nodded. "But, at the time, I guess I figured that these watcher people were a threat to Mac, and he was just trying to figure them out, ya know?"

"You don't think so anymore?" Richie shrugged.

"I dunno, Tess. I guess… I guess, now that we know all about their little… secret society… life can return to normal—that's what we've been doing!"

"Is that bad?" Richie shrugged again.

"Life is back to normal, we're back in Seacouver, opening the store, you're working on your art…" Richie's voice trailed off. "And Darius is dead, and it's like Paris never was." Tessa nodded thoughtfully.

"So that's the reason behind your behavior of late? You wish we were still in Paris because of what Seacouver means to you?" Richie nodded, suddenly feeling very young and very foolish. "And you blamed Duncan for it," she continued, "because we all followed him, and he didn't bother to ask us what we felt." Richie's head turned sharply at the last.

"He didn't ask us," he said hotly. "He just up and moved, and then you went with him, and I'm not just going to stay in Paris when my _family_ is going back to the states!" Tessa heard the misdirected anger still present in his voice at these facts.

"And he should have asked us," she said knowingly, "because we're family." Richie nodded. There was a pause in which each was waiting for the other to say something. Soon it drifted into awkwardness, and surprisingly it was Richie to be the first to speak.

"I was a real jerk…" he said, almost to himself. "You guys have been better to me than I could have ever dreamed. I had no right."

"Richie, you have the right to your emotions," said Tessa with a faint smile. "But you have to talk about them with other people. How can Duncan and I know what's wrong if you won't tell us?"

"I know," Richie agreed dejectedly. "I screwed up, I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," said Tessa, smiling wider now. "Just… remember that we are your family, and we care about you and want to help you, and when you keep us in the dark we don't know how to do that."

"I should have been honest from the start," said Richie. "But with the whole watcher thing, and then Mac… I dunno. I guess I wasn't sure exactly _what_ I was feeling."

"That's ok too, Richie," said Tessa. "You don't have to be omniscient. Just honest." Richie smiled at the statement.

"Well, honestly, nothing gave me the right to treat you guys like I did. Honestly, I should have spoken up instead of acting out. And honestly… I really hate how I always seem to have these conversations from a hospital bed." Tessa laughed.

"Honestly, Richie, if we had all been honest with each other in the beginning, this never would have happened." This time Richie laughed.

"Even Mac?"

"Even Mac." Tessa suddenly turned serious. "Richie, the reason I wanted to get here ahead of him was so that we could have this talk." Richie sat up straighter, listening intently. "He's scared to death that you won't forgive him."

"Forgive _him_?" Richie asked incredulously. He thought this conversation had been about all that he'd done wrong, not the other way around. Tessa nodded.

"He knows now how you feel about his avenging Darius, and about leaving Paris." Richie paled.

"He thinks I blame him?"

"You told him you did, in an argument you had after returning from Mrs. Burke's. It was after that argument that you went to Emily's grave." Richie was speechless for a moment.

"Oh man…" He croaked out eventually. "I don't remember." Tessa used every last ounce of will power she had to keep her speech neutral.

"You were ill," she pointed out. "The doctors must have told you about your delirium." Richie nodded. "Well, in that delirium, you told Duncan everything about how you felt. I think he's afraid to even look at you." Richie hung his head, tears pricking his eyes.

"Did I tell him _everything_?" He asked quietly. Tessa nodded gravely, and Richie's spirits fell even further. Now, looking back, he was able to get a handle on exactly what he felt. Of course, now after talking to Tessa, he was able to see his feelings in a new light. He was still hurt by all that had happened, but there was less anger, less blame. And a whole lot of regret towards his own behavior. Now it seems that he has told Mac… everything. If Tessa was correct, than he would have revealed how he had felt that his delusion of Mac and Tessa being different from his foster families was shattered. He would have shown Mac the hurt, and the betrayal felt at such a revelation. He would have shown his disgust. He would have said how he felt that their family was broken. He would have said it all.

And it looks like he did just that, because in his illness he had finally lost his self-control, right before losing consciousness and nearly losing his life as well. Richie still felt that Duncan was wrong to pursue Darius's killers for that fact alone. He needed to learn about the watchers, but it was for the wrong reasons that he went about it. He was still angry and Duncan for just assuming that nothing would be wrong with another sudden relocation. He was hurt that Duncan had taken his trust and friendship… and love… for granted. Oh, Richie still felt hurt, still felt betrayed. But also now he felt saddened at these events. Reality had finally decided to chime in. Mac and Tessa weren't perfect. Mac wasn't always right and Tessa wasn't always willing to stand up for her beliefs. That's the realization that hurt the most: that imperfection could touch even the most perfect of lives.

Mac and Tessa weren't perfect, and it was wrong for Richie to wish that of them. He knew that now. That realization caused the anger, and bitterness, to abate. Sure Mac screwed up, and Tessa went along to get along, and Richie was caught up in the flow. But really, what has come of it? Knowledge of the watchers, such as they are, which is necessary for survival. And they're back in Seacouver, where life will continue, much as it always does. Is it right to condemn this town because it isn't Paris? Or rather, is the loss of Paris the loss of something less tangible?

The loss of the illusion of perfection, that's what tasted so bitter to Richie. And that's what he blamed MacLeod for. His family was still his family, no matter where they lived. Richie had accepted that when he awoke in the hospital frightened and alone and longing for Mac and Tessa. All slights and quarrels were forgotten. The frightened boy that was Richie still longed for his… family… when all the lights went out.

Oh, they weren't his parents. As much as he wanted them to be and as much as he knew they wanted to fill those roles, they weren't his parents. He couldn't expect them to behave as such, and he couldn't be mad at MacLeod for failing at the task with his first error on the side of selfishness. His mistake was in the role of a father, Richie realized now. That's what he had been holding against Duncan. That's why telling Tessa the nature of his unrest of late was so difficult today. On some level, conscious or unconscious, Richie had held Mac and Tessa to the level of a parent. And when they failed in the task, the illusion was shattered, and Paris was abandoned for Seacouver in the process, and Richie was forcibly reminded of the truth that was so easy to forget on the other side of the pond.

Richie had felt these things, and then he had learned them, in the hospital, as he waited alone with nothing but his own thoughts in a now fever-free mind. As much as MacLeod was wrong in his actions, Richie knew that he too was wrong in his reactions. He knew that he should just apologize and be done with it, bury his bad thoughts away and forget he ever felt those things. But Tessa had forced him to reveal them, much to his chagrin. And now it seems that everything he didn't tell her, he had already told MacLeod.

In hindsight now, Richie knows that his betrayal was by far the worst.

"Richie?" Tessa snapped him out of his musings, and he looked up at her distractedly, as though he had clean forgotten she was still there.

"I don't remember what I said," he began. "But I remember what I _felt_." Tessa nodded in understanding. "You're telling me that Mac knows that stuff? That I said… things?" Tessa nodded again.

"You did," she said. "And now Duncan is using his run to try and come up with ways to beg for your forgiveness." Richie shut his eyes against new tears.

"I should be the one to do that," he said. Tessa shook her head.

"Richie, don't you see? There is no blame here. Both of you were wrong, and yet neither of you were wrong."

"So what do I do?" He asked, sounding in that moment truly lost. Tessa's heart went out to the boy.

"Well, _we_ accept what's happened between us, and then we move on."

"We?" Richie asked, now sounding fearful.

"Yes, we," said Tessa. "Because we're family, and that's what families do." Richie smiled and nodded at that statement even as a few stray tears escaped to scroll down his cheek. Tessa lovingly cupped his chin and wiped them away with her thumb, much as she had done months ago when thoughts of family were shared.

"And families don't hold grudges," said Richie when Tessa released him. "So there's nothing to forgive."

"_Exactement__!_" Tessa exclaimed, before enveloping him in yet another life-threatening hug.

"But I guess I need to talk to Mac," Richie said eventually when Tessa released him. She nodded gratefully.

"I think you two have a lot to discuss," she said. Then she looked at her watch. "He should be here any minute now."


	12. Conclusion

AN- Thanks again to SC, my only reviewer once again.  I don't know if you're the only reader of this story anymore of if you're just the only vocal reader, but you have my unending thanks once again.  In case there are others reading this, please see the author's note at the very end.

AN2- There's one more bit of French in here translated as it was last chapter.

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Richie slumped back down on the bed, his mind racing.  What could he possibly say to Duncan now?  What could Duncan possibly say to him?

"So he's coming here to—to apologize?"  Richie stuttered at length. 

"He wants to apologize," Tessa clarified.  "But he doesn't know how to reach you."  Richie nodded solemnly.

"He's not mad?"  Tessa nearly laughed but had the good graces not to.

"Of course not!" She reassured.  Richie frowned.

"It's easier when he's mad," he said dejectedly. 

"Are you expecting the 'I'm not mad, I'm disappointed' speech?"  Tessa asked, slightly confused.  Richie laughed.

"Ha!  I wish," he said, finding humor despite himself. 

"What then?" Tessa asked, now truly confused.  Richie sobered immediately as he thought of his next answer.

"Before, when I screwed up, I would dread the lecture that was coming, but then we'd talk everything out and I'd apologize and he'd forgive me, and then we'd banter about it and put it behind us."

"So?" Tessa asked.  "What's wrong with that?"

"It's not supposed to be the other way around," Richie said quietly, deadly serious.  Tessa nodded in understanding.

"You think Duncan is dreading a lecture from _you_?"  Richie laughed again, wholly and genuinely, and Tessa couldn't help but join in, before the serious mood returned and the laughed ceased.

"He's worried I won't forgive him," he said sagely.  Tessa once again fixed him with a questioning look.  Richie's response was to simply return that look, finding no words to express what he meant.  Suddenly realization struck and Tessa bit back a gasp.

"Were you ever afraid that we wouldn't forgive you?" She asked in concern.  Richie blushed and looked away.  "Richie?"

"I used to," he answered at last.

"But not anymore?"  Once again Richie didn't answer.  Tessa was about to repeat her question when finally the teen spoke.

"Not so much," he said.  "Not since Paris."  Tessa nodded.  Then her expression changed.

"Richie, _écoutez__ moi_," she said seriously. (_listen__ to me_).  Richie's head snapped around upon hearing the French.  "There is nothing you can do that we won't forgive you," she said.  "Do you hear me?  Nothing."  After a brief pause Richie nodded.  Then he released a fierce yawn.  Tessa's expression changed then to one of guilt.

"Oh, Richie, I'm sorry!"  She exclaimed.  "Here I am talking you to death when you should be resting!"

"It's cool," said Richie before yawning again.  Tessa arched an eyebrow.  "Well, I guess I am tired."

"You guess?"  Tessa said in amusement.  Richie shrugged as he settled himself back down into the bed and burrowed slightly into the covers.  Entirely too much practice had taught him exactly how to get comfortable on a hospital bed with an IV in his arm.  "Rest now," Tessa directed.  "I have to go, but Duncan will be here when you wake up."  Richie smiled even as he felt sleep claiming him.

"He usually is," he said, his eyes closed.  Not long after he was sound asleep.  Tessa took the time to fluff his pillow and straighten his covers before lovingly brushing a few stray curls out of his face.  Her maternal look lingered a little before she turned to leave, intent on finding some coffee, and perhaps, her errant lover.

She ran into Duncan on her way back from the coffee machine.  He was standing in the doorframe to Richie's room, but Tessa couldn't see what expression was on his face.  It was just like the ICU, when Duncan would stand beside the large glass windows and watch Richie from a protected distance.  However, this was a normal room, and thus the doorframe…

"I thought you'd get here soon," said Tessa, startling Duncan out of his thoughts.

"He's sleeping," said Duncan, voicing the obvious.

"Yes." 

"He always looks so peaceful when he sleeps," said Duncan wistfully.  Tessa nodded.  By now they were standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway.  They stood in silence for a time.

"He fell asleep waiting for you," said Tessa finally.  Duncan winced and Tessa regretted her phrasing. 

"I take it you two… talked?" Duncan asked.  Tessa nodded, ignoring his tone.

"He remembers fighting with us, but he doesn't remember anything of stabbing you, or of the conversation you had."  Duncan nodded.

"What did you tell him?"

"I informed him of what he said to you, and that you were looking to apologize."  Duncan sighed.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Why not?"  Duncan didn't answer.  "Duncan, he already feels guilty for the stuff that he does remember.  I didn't want him to be sitting there waiting to apologize to us when all you're thinking of is ways of apologizing to _him_."

"He wants to apologize?" Duncan asked in quiet surprise.  Tessa tensed, mentally counting to ten.

"Of course he does!"  Then her frustration left her and she suddenly became thoughtful.  "You should listen to what he has to say, Duncan."

"I don't want his apologies," he said with a sigh.

"No more than he wants yours," Tessa pointed out.  "Just listen to him, Duncan.  Trust me."  There was a long pause before Duncan finally nodded, sighing heavily.  Tessa passed him her forgotten cup of coffee.  "He just fell asleep, so I don't know how long you'll be waiting."  Duncan nodded again, curling his fingers around the reinforced paper cup.

"I'll see you at home?" 

"Of course."  A smile and a quick kiss and she was gone, leaving Duncan standing in the doorframe alone, holding a rapidly cooling cup of coffee.  Absently he took a sip and noticed how she'd made it to his tastes and not her own.  With a soft smile and a shake of his head, Duncan made his way over to the bedside chair to await Richie's awakening.

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Duncan didn't have to wait too terribly long for Richie to awaken.  The teen shifted beneath his covers, as he was wont to do when waking from sleep.  Usually Richie never moved in his sleep, so any small movement was quickly noticed by Duncan's practiced eye.  He watched with both relief and trepidation as Richie shifted and stretched and finally yawned, blinking blearily awake.

"Have a nice nap?" Duncan asked with natural good humor.  It was always a comforting sight, watching Richie wake up.

"Oh, hi Mac," said Richie as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.  His tone was tired but not unfriendly and Duncan forced himself to ignore it, blaming all hidden meanings on his own paranoia rather than any probable intent.  Richie shoved himself into a sitting position and turned to regard MacLeod intently.  For a moment neither of them spoke.

"Listen, Richie—"

"Mac, I—"  They both began at once.  Then both of them stopped and their joint laughter was heard.  "You were saying," Richie prompted.  Duncan shook his head.

"No, you first."  At Richie's uncertain gaze he added, "I insist."  Richie sighed heavily as he pondered his next words. 

"I don't want you to apologize to me, Mac," he said seriously, looking Duncan straight in the eye.  Under that gaze Duncan inwardly flinched: there was so much sincerity, so much… emotion, present in those blue orbs.  Duncan shook his head.

"Well I won't apologize to you if you don't apologize to me."  Richie opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it quickly and looked away.  "We were both wrong, and both right at the same time," said Duncan, recalling Tessa's earlier words.  "So either we both apologize, or we both just skip that part."

"And move on to the meaningful heart-to-heart talk?" Richie offered, his voice surprisingly devoid of sarcasm. 

"If we both don't want to hear apologies then it seems like the logical choice," said Duncan, the barest hints of a smile tugging at his lips.

"But what if we want to say them anyway?" Richie asked quietly.  Duncan sighed, blinking slowly and getting a handle on his emotions.

"Please don't say you're sorry to me, Richie," said Duncan, mostly into the hand that he had brought up to shield his eyes.  "I don't think I could bear it."  Richie nodded, slightly surprised at this sudden display of emotion from Mac.

"Can I say that I was wrong?" Richie asked quietly.  Duncan lowered his hand from his eyes and fixed a questioning gaze on the teen.  "I shouldn't have acted the way I did," Richie elaborated.  "It was wrong."

"If you want to start expressing wrongful acts, I'd bury you laddie," said Duncan, his brogue slipping through the cracks of his emotions.  Richie smiled despite himself.  It bespoke of the Gaelic he would hear whenever he was sick or in the hospital and pretending to be asleep.  It was a comforting sound, somehow.

"I behaved like a spoiled brat," Richie offered.

"I put my needs above everyone else's," Duncan countered.

"I got into fights with a cop and a street gang."

"I killed the watcher responsible for Darius's death."  Richie tensed slightly but brushed it off.  Hearing of those the Highlander killed was a normal occurrence after all.  Of course, the fact that it _is_ so normal is still slightly jarring.

"I needlessly worried you and Tessa," he continued as if nothing happened.

"I didn't notice how sick you were," Duncan answered. 

"I got pissed when you stopped being my father."  Silence.  Richie then realized what he had said, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.  But as much as he wanted to, he didn't look away.  Instead he waited patiently (or at least he seemed to) for Duncan to counterpoint the statement.

"I'm not your father, Richie," Duncan said at last.  Richie nodded barely perceptibly.

"I know."  Duncan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

"Tessa loves you like a mother," he said.  Richie nodded again.

"But she's not," he said sadly.

"No," said Duncan, sadly and yet fatalistic.  "She's not."  Richie sighed.

"I know why you went after… the watchers," he said. 

"And I know that Darius wouldn't have wanted it," Duncan interrupted. Richie raised his hand. 

"Please Mac.  Just let me."  Duncan nodded, and Richie sighed.  "It was the fact that you left for Seacouver without planning on telling us," he said, forcing his voice to remain emotionless.  These hurts were far from healed, but, like Tessa said, there really was no blame.  "Then Tessa decided point-blank to follow you," he continued.  "Neither of you asked me."  Duncan blinked his eyes closed and momentarily let his guilt overwhelm him.

"I just assumed you would follow…"  Was Duncan's eventual reply.

"Don't you know what happens when you assume?"  Richie asked, raising an eyebrow in the style he'd learned from Tessa.  Duncan couldn't help but laugh, and it was desperately needed to ease the tension in the room.  Richie then sobered, and Duncan sensed the changed.  "Mac, I was angry because, when we got back from Paris, I remembered that you guys weren't my parents, and I took that anger out on you."

"Richie—"

"Let me finish, Mac.  Please."  Duncan nodded, bracing himself for the worst.  "In Paris," Richie continued, "it was so easy to forget that I was just the punk kid who ripped off your store.  I thought that I was a different person over there."  He looked down then, and his next sentence was said so softly that Duncan almost didn't hear it.  "I pretended to be your son."  Duncan took a wincing inhale that he couldn't keep silent and Richie flinched and still avoided eye contact.  Finally Duncan spoke.

"And Tessa and I took on the roles of parents," he said. 

"Until you took off to avenge Darius," said Richie, looking out the window on the opposite wall.  "That's when I knew that pretending wasn't any good.  That's when… That's why I got mad.  Because I couldn't pretend anymore."

"Tessa and… I can't have children," said Duncan, loathing to make the amendment.  "I guess she had convinced herself that she didn't want any.  Then, well, then we met you, and…"

"And I became the son you couldn't have," said Richie thoughtfully.  It really hadn't occurred to him that Mac and Tessa would have wanted a son as much as he thought he'd wanted parents.

"We all just assumed…"

"And we were all wrong," Duncan finished.  Richie smiled. 

"I still feel like I should apologize," said Richie.  Duncan's face darkened.

"Are you still angry?"

"No!" Richie reassured all too quickly.  He sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his already tousled hair.  "It's… I'm not mad at you."    

"What then?"  Richie sighed again. 

"I guess… I guess I just didn't want the illusion to end, ya know?  I know we never said anything, about how we felt n'all.  But I was… In Paris, I liked how it felt."

"We all did," Duncan reassured.  Richie nodded.  "But Richie, just because I'm not your father doesn't mean you're not a part of my family."

"I know," Richie said softly.  "Thank you."  Duncan laughed.

"You don't need to thank me, Richie," he said, and Richie joined in the amusement before growing serious again.

"What I wanted to apologize for," he began.  Duncan instantly grew serious as well.  "Was for forgetting that, when we moved back to Seacouver."  Duncan nodded, once again feeling tears prick at his eyes but he refused to let them fall.

"And I wanted to apologize for my selfish behavior allowing you to have doubts," he said.  Richie grinned.

"But we're not apologizing."

"No, we're not apologizing," Duncan readily agreed, sharing in the smile.  It was understood then, in their lack of apologies, in their lack of groveling for forgiveness amidst rampant self-bashing, that even if such things were unneeded, they were freely given.  For in a loving family, there is nothing to forgive, and it is the love that makes it so, for it drives the members to asking.

"So what happens now?" Richie asked at length, disturbing the comfortable silence that had gradually replaced the laugher.

"Well," Duncan began, "first you rest and get well."

"Then what?"

"Then we take you home."  Richie smiled.  _Home.__  The loft.  Mac.  Tessa… Home._ 

"And then?"  Duncan grinned.

"Well, I have a store to run," he said.  "But I think there's a job opening for an errand boy."  Richie laughed and Duncan thanked God for the sound.

"Are you offering me my old job back?"

"It's yours if you want it."  Richie laughed again.

"Why do I always get jobs from you when I wind up in the hospital?"  This time Duncan laughed before turning serious once again.

"You should sleep," he said.  "The most important thing is for you to get well."  As if on cue, Richie yawned when he opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't tired.  Duncan merely glared at him and Richie's cheeks flushed.

"Well, I guess you won't buy that I'm not tired."  Duncan grinned.

"Not on your life."  Richie flopped himself back down onto the bed, somehow managing not to disturb his IV in the process.  Duncan sadly shook his head at this learned skill.  It was all he could do to resist tucking the lad in.

"You'll be here when I wake up?" Richie asked, sounding very young as he made himself comfortable on the hospital bed.  Duncan smiled warmly.

"Always."      

FIN

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AN3- Well, that's all folks.  Love it?  Hate it?  Something in between???  Whatever your opinions, I humbly beg you to share them—constructively if possible.  As an aspiring author I need to know what I do well and what I do poorly so that I may better improve my craft.  So please, tell me!


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